


Tipping the Velvet

by Amymel86



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Benefactor!Jon, Blow Job, Courtesan!Sansa, Courtesans, Cunnilingus, Does that make sense?, Elia is not related to Oberyn, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time Sex, It just happened, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Jon and the Starks Are Not Related, Jon is a slightly repressed Victorian Gentleman who some people may think is ooc, Jon somehow manages to attend a social function and come away with a courtesan, Jonsa Historical Event, Ned/Cat are dead, Petyr is a manipulative knob, Prostitution, Robb and Sansa were the only Stark kids, Slow Burn, Virgin!Jon, Westerosi Victorian, a few victorian slang words and phrases that were fun to research, as slow burn as you can get with Jon employing a courtesan, but deal with it he will - eventually, eventually, he wasn't in the market, he'll have a POV later on so we can see his motives, idk - Freeform, now with added angst, plus he’s a virgin and a cinnamon roll, sort of slow burn, there’s sexual tension that Jon doesn’t how to deal with, this is set in Victorian times but the places are westerosi, victorian au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-05-26 10:34:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 74,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14999048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/pseuds/Amymel86
Summary: “Some lucky fellow piqued your interest, darling?” Margaery smirked, taking back the offered glasses and peering through them. “The Targaryens?” She lowered the opera glasses and raised one perfect brow as she turned to face Sansa. “Good breeding, old name, if we set a contract with the eldest, Aegon, you’ll be rather comfortable. Unfortunately, I’ve no knowledge of the man himself or his appetites in the bedroom, so I’m unable to guide you there, my dear.”“Which one is the eldest?” Sansa asked, her eyes trained on the dark-haired Targaryen.“The one with the dashing silver hair.”“Oh.”Sansa felt Margaery’s eyes on her again. “You favour the spare over the heir? As a woman of business, I should advise you against it and turn you towards a more lucrative arrangement... but as a woman of pleasure, I say there’s nothing wrong with a bit of fun.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vivilove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/gifts), [Titania_Queen_of_the_Fairies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Titania_Queen_of_the_Fairies/gifts), [Queenofthebees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenofthebees/gifts).



> For the Jonsa Historical Event - A Time For Wolves. A multichapter Victorian au with Sansa finding herself using the alias of Alayne Stone so she is able to make a living as a Courtesan after a disaster whirlwind romance involving Harry Hardyng leaves her a 'fallen woman'. Jon is the younger son of Rhaegar Targaryen, Earl of Dragonstone, and is trying to find his way in life by focusing on a career in publishing - all those 'nocturnal activities' practised between a woman and a man can wait until marriage; he WILL NOT be distracted by members of the fairer sex - until he meets Alayne, and falls for her - HARD
> 
> *The title of this fic is Victorian slang for cunnilingus and also the name of a novel and tv drama a few years back (this fic has nothing to do with the novel/tv show)
> 
> ** Gifted to Vivi and Tanya for letting me use them as sounding boards for my ideas, and to Debbie because it was her love of virgin!Jon that prompted me to add that element to this fic!
> 
> *** I have a few chapters already written and will be posting those daily. I hope you enjoy - please let me know!
> 
> **** PLEASE READ THE TAGS AS THEY ANSWER A LOT OF QUESTIONS

_Well this is a sight better than that horrid boarding house,_  Sansa mused as she placed her hat box on the large bed provided for her. Margaery’s maidservants and footman scurried in to make sure her trunks were set down and that she had a steaming pot of tea ready on the little silver tray next to a rather comfortable looking armchair. Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t wanted to rely on anyone while she got herself back on her feet here in London, but she had come to learn that the guest house she’d sought for herself was also a discreet establishment for the gentlemen of the middle-classes to indulge with its guests.

 

_“Pretty thing like you-” the wife of the landlord had whispered to her on only her fourth nights stay, “- you could fetch a fine price if you’re willin’ to sell your company. I’ve got some regulars who are keen to avoid the cupid’s disease and will only be entertained by virgins see.”  Sansa had shook her head and blushed profusely, her mouth opening and closing like a washed up fish. “Already given up your virtue, is it?” the greying woman with crooked teeth deduced. “No matter, lovey. Nothing that a quick dip of sponge into some piggy’s blood won’t hide. Push it into your honeypot and he’ll think you squeaky new when he comes away with the evidence on his member.” Another guest - a woman that Sansa had shared a carriage with into town that morning - walked by on her way to her room, giving them both a smile and a nod. Sansa cleared her throat nervously, she may know how to please a man, but she was not about to start selling herself in a boarding house! “Oh don’t mind Violet,” her landlady interrupted, indicating with a tilt of her head at the woman who had disappeared behind the door of her rented room, “she’s taken a few of my gentleman a time or two to help with her room and board. Used the old sponge trick on occasion too – doubled the price she did! Shouldn’t be doing that on the regular mind you – don’t want word spreadin’ that my girls are miraculously untouched after many visits. Tongues start waggin’ and my husband and I can’t be accused o’ lyin’.”_

 

_“I…” Sansa stood and nervously smoothed her gloved hands down her fine cream and lilac taffeta gown, “I thank you for your offer, madam, but I shall be moving on soon to stay with… friends in-in the capital.” With that, Sansa hurried to her room to gather her belongings._

 

 _‘Friends’_  was a tad stretch for what she might call Margaery considering she’d only met her at all of two occasions when Waymar had taken her out to a soiree or two. And yet the famed Courtesan had obviously taken a liking to Sansa during those two instances because she was welcomed with open arms and an exclamation of  _“Alayne! Darling! You simply must come to stay with me! What fun we shall have!”_

 

And this is how Sansa had come to be sitting in an ornately decorated guest room in a house owned by the renowned  _‘Golden Rose’_  of the  _demi-monde,_ sipping on her tea and staring at the intricate embroidery on the green and golden bed linens as she contemplated how her life had turned down such a twisty, uneasy route. It had all started with  _‘love’_. Of course, all the best and the worst stories do. She almost laughs at herself now; how can she be sure that what she had felt for Harry – what she had assumed he’d felt for her in return – even  _was_  love? It certainly  _wasn’t_  for him in the end anyway. Not when he’d laid promises of a proposal at her feet until Sansa had conceded, and they’d done an altogether  _different_  typing of laying together.

 

Sansa rubbed her forehead at the stupid girl she had once been; one utterance of  _‘love’_  and she’d allowed Harry to have her on her back, wincing at the pain as he eagerly pushed himself inside her, convincing herself that this is what one does when they are desperately in love. Love doesn’t wait for a silly marriage paper. It had seemed exciting, it had seemed passionate, it had seemed thrilling. Until it wasn’t any of those things anymore and Harry had simply disappeared. His good friend, Mr Baelish had consoled her. Why, he’d even been the one to offer the use of one of his townhouses so that they could be alone together without prying eyes or under the scrutiny of a chaperone. It had been Mr Baelish who had told her the truth of it all, bringing the consequences of her actions crashing down around her naïve ears, much to her horror.

 

_“The neighbours, Mr Brune and his wife, they’ve noticed you coming and going into the house with Mr Hardyng. They were quite affronted that a guest of mine would be so forward as to welcome a whore to the house in broad daylight.”_

 

_Sansa gasped. “I am no whore!” Mr Baelish only cocked his head in response, a knowing smile upon his lips._

 

_“I know this, and you know this, sweet one, but the walls are thin between these townhouses and sometimes bedsprings talk.”_

 

_Sansa flushed profusely, remembering how Harry had cursed and grunted and thrusted erratically until the headboard thumped against the wall, all finished with an almighty strangled cry. There could be no doubt what they had been doing. They obviously hadn’t been as discreet as they had thought. “I-“ She wanted to go home. Robb would be in need of her, he was still getting used to being Lord of their Winterfell estate after Mother and Father’s deaths some two years ago now. She had taken this trip to The Vale to see their Aunt Lysa, believing that some time away from the estate might do her good. Lysa had introduced her to Harry and everything had spiralled form there. She’d fancied that she may have come home to Winterfell with a husband on her arm, but all she could return with was shame._

 

_“Now, now,” Mr Baelish tutted, taking out a handkerchief and dabbing at her cheek. Sansa’s not even sure any of her tears had fallen yet, but they were definitely threatening to. “I would so like to be able to tell you that what Mr Brune and his wife might say to any man on the street and those within the higher circles of life won’t matter, but I’m afraid that I simply cannot do that, sweetling.” He paused to smile sympathetically at her. “Word does get around… and rumour has it that the Brunes will be taking a tour of the north in the coming months. They shall be sure to take that talk with them… “_

 

_“But they don’t even know who I am!” Sansa almost wailed. Mr Baelish gave her that smile again and Sansa felt herself rapidly feeling sick at the sight of it._

 

_“Oh but they do I’m afraid, sweet one. You see, I had not known Harry’s intended use of my house otherwise I would have refused him, of course… but once I heard them describe the pretty red-headed… ah...’slattern’ who frequented here with him, well, I had to set them straight! ‘Sir,’ I told him, ‘you’d do well to hold your tongue when you speak of Miss Sansa Stark, Lord Stark’s sister of Winterfell!”_

 

_Sansa felt herself shrink into the plush of Mr Baelish’s patterned chaise longue, a terrible fear sparking from deep within her, making her feel far too hot in her corset. Had she really just thrown everything away like that? Not only her heart to an utter scoundrel who took his fill of her and tucked his tail and ran, but dragged her own brother into the mud along with her? Their name will hence forth be sullied in all good society. How could she have done this? How can she face Robb now? After everything he already shoulders with being Lord and heir? Mr Baelish went on to fan those flames of fear until she felt positively helpless._

 

_“I know you will be feeling somewhat… shameful for bringing disgrace to your brother and your family name by acting wantonly but-“ he reached forward and placed an almost too cool hand atop hers, “- there is a way out of this mess you seemed to have created for yourself.”_

 

_“A way out?” she felt a glimmer of hope before it was shred to ribbons._

 

_“Yes… now, you cannot return to Winterfell, that much is true, but-“_

 

_“But… my brother-“_

 

_“Does not deserve the dishonour you bring to him.”_

 

_That had been the final straw. Sansa’s ashamed to say that she had bawled like a child then. A stupid little girl that should’ve known better. Mr Baelish had tried to comfort her, but she’d stood and began pacing, using his handkerchief to furiously wipe away her hot tears._

 

_“Sweet one,” Sansa was coming to rapidly dislike this pet name he’d given her, “you cannot go back to Winterfell, so it only stands to reason that you should remain here in The Vale and forge a career for yourself.”_

 

_“A career? What career?” Sansa had only thought of becoming a wife and mother. A career was a completely foreign prospect to her. “What would I do? I have no discernible skills! I have no experience as a governess and I-“_

 

_Mr Baelish held up his hand, cutting off her hysterical blabbering. “No, not anything within the household of a respectable family. I suggest that you turn your newly acquired misfortune into something rather more… fortunate.”_

 

_“I don’t understand,” she felt her brows pull together as her hands dropped to her sides, the taffeta of her sleeves brushing against her skirts with a rustling sound._

 

_Mr Baelish indicated with an open palm up to her. “You are now a woman with experience. You know how to please a man… I am suggesting that you put that experience to use.”_

 

_Clenching her hands into fists, Sansa felt her blood simmer. She did not know how to please a man! She only laid there, allowing Harry to thrust and pound and grunt and groan, all while she stared up at him like a lovesick fool, convincing herself that she should enjoy this – this writhing of bodies and slapping of sweaty flesh. Harry was the one who did the pleasing – he pleased himself and then fled without a word. “Just because I thought myself in love, sir, does not mean I shall sell my body to all manner of men to take their pleasure and leave me with a few coins for my trouble!” She was shaking._

 

_“No, no, no,” Mr Baelish shook his head, his tone condescending. “You mistake me, sweetling.” He stood, coming to place both his hands on her shoulders. “I do not mean to insinuate that you should become a common whore. Far from it. You, my dear, have the makings of becoming one of the great courtesans.”_

 

It’s remarkable how quickly Baelish had managed to sway her to his notion that day. The following morning, he had introduced her as ‘Alayne Stone’ to Waymar Royce and Sansa found herself penning her lies to Robb that very same afternoon.  _‘Off to take a tour of the Myrish coast with her new husband’_  had been the story she’d told. She’d signed it  _‘Mrs S Hardyng’_  – and so Sansa had disappeared into the nothingness between the ink of her words, and ‘Alayne’ found herself living in one of Waymar’s properties, a small but beautifully furnished townhouse in Runestone.

 

Waymar had been kind, she supposed, kinder than Harry, that’s for sure. Neither one of them had shown a pretence for feeling deeply for one another, and he had not dogged her day and night for visits to her bed like she had initially feared when she’d agreed to be his ‘particular lady-friend’. She had even come to enjoy some aspects of that side of things. Sansa prided herself at being accomplished, and once she’d begun to grow in confidence and found out some of the things that seemed to drive him wild with lust… well, Sansa can’t deny that Waymar’s gratitude of furs and jewels and pretty dresses weren’t appreciated. She was on her own now after all – no powerful family name behind her for comfort and safety. Nothing… except Waymar and Mr Baelish. The former bestowing her with riches to squirrel away and survive on, and the latter giving her encouragement, information and connections to help her thrive in her new life as a courtesan.

 

It wasn’t until Mr Baelish started drip-feeding her the notion that she should take on more than one benefactor, that Sansa began to feel  _truly_  uneasy. Waymar was fine, Waymar was good to her, Waymar she could predict. And even though she already exchanges his riches for her company with him to social gatherings, picnics in the park and kisses between the bedsheets he’d paid for, Sansa felt that it a tad too far for her to take on another young beau. She had come to know of courtesans that did it, much to their success, but she wasn’t ready. She felt an odd sense of loyalty to Waymar, despite the reality of their situation.

 

Sansa supposes she was under Waymar’s ‘protection’ for a little more than a year when Mr Baelish brought news of her benefactor’s engagement – some daughter of a ‘new money’ family; probably a mogul of industry. The old aristocratic families were begrudgingly joining with these new-comers to society, allowing their recently acquired wealth to blow into their lives like their steam now powers the enormous machines in their factories and the locomotives on the rails. Sansa wonders if Robb has found a wife yet? He could be well on his way to filling that nursery at Winterfell by now and she’d never know it. She had put ink to paper a few times only to scrunch her scratchy words up in a ball and throw them in the fireplace. What good could come of more lies? Let him forget about her, let him move on. It wasn’t like she could forge a letter from overseas anyway, maybe one day she would, maybe one day she’ll get to see Myr in reality.

 

 _“So I am to be mistress now,”_  she had said after Mr Baelish’s words had sunk in. In truth, she had wondered if something was afoot, since Waymar had not visited her in nigh on a month, and she had not entertained him in the bedroom for longer than that. Mr Baelish had simply patted the skirts on her knee and suggested he introduce her to some more of his ‘esteemed friends’.

 

She’d pondered hard on Mr Baelish’s offer. There was some element about it that rankled her something awful. And then Waymar himself had come to take tea with her in the parlour. He’d softly explained that he suspected a true attachment had grown between his future wife and himself; that he would be in no need of a mistress, that he would no longer be able to ‘keep’ her, that he was willing to ‘pass her on’ to one of his acquaintances from the Gentleman’s Club that he was absolutely sure would treat her well – as if he were doing her a great favour, as if she were now a burden he must be rid of!

 

Sansa had held her tongue until Waymar took his last sip of tea, donned his hat and pressed a kiss to her knuckles in parting, promising to sing her praises to her potential new benefactor and make sure he was a man of good breeding and gentle nature. She’d cried into her pillow that night.

 

Sansa was not sad at the prospect of having to end her involvement with Waymar – heavens, no! She was saddened, rather from the inescapable feeling of being likened to that of chattel; herded from one place to the next on the whims and direction of these men in her life. She had thought back a few months then, to when Waymar had happily showed her off on his arm at a soirée. The whole evening was a twitter with news that Margaery Tyrell, the ‘Golden Rose’ of the demi-monde, perhaps second only to Cora Pearl herself in fame, was attending that night.

 

Somehow, Sansa had found herself sequestered by Margaery who had taken a liking to her and plucked her straight from Waymar’s arm with barely a sniff and an  _“Alayne, darling, come, let us navigate this evening together,” she sighed, completely ignoring Waymar as she continued, “a beauty such as yourself should not miss out on the fun by being positively adhered to a man!”_  Sansa had thrown a worried look over her shoulder at Waymar but he’d seemed more entertained by the whole spectacle than anything else.  _Oh!_  And Margaery  _had_  been fun. Outrageously scandalous, but jolly good fun! Sansa can still feel the blush high on her cheeks when she recalls how the Golden Rose had pointed out various gentlemen distracted at their poker game, whispering behind her fan to Sansa how that one asked her to wear nothing but his top hat, tailcoat and stockings as he took his pleasure with her, or this one wanted her to spank his rear like a disobedient child. She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she’d giggled so very much.

 

And that was what had gotten her thinking. Margaery had put the proverbial ‘bee in her bonnet’ as it were; the Golden Rose was able to attract men from far and wide, all vying for a chance at an encounter with her, for however long she might deem them entertaining enough or their generosity pleasing enough. Margaery decided with whom she would become ‘special acquaintances with’ and for how long, she didn’t have to wait around for a man’s introduction or be ‘passed on’ from one gentleman’s bed to another. Sansa wanted that. She wanted this funny kind of freedom that was generally not available to members of her sex – and certainly not to a married woman who is legally owned by her husband. And she fancied that she  _could_  have it. Sansa had no grand illusions of joining Margaery at the lofty heights of fame, but as ‘Alayne’, she had become saucy enough and witty enough... she thinks. She’s learned things. She has a  _certain knowledge_  that has come with her experience. Perhaps she could learn more? She didn’t need Mr Baelish, or Waymar for that matter! She could find her own ‘acquaintances’, make her own choices!

 

And this, is how Alayne Stone found herself as a temporary guest at Margaery’s Silk Street residence, Highgarden House, pondering whether or not being ‘under the wing’ of the Gold Rose was a wise move for her 'career'.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's POV
> 
> *an edit from the previous chapter - whilst writing this fic I went back and forth as to whether I would be setting it in real places, or in the world of asoiaf - in chap1 I had missed one edit before I’d posted and had left the destination that Sansa told Robb she was visiting as ‘the American coast’ - just FYI, it’s now amended to the ‘Myrish coast’ just to make sure it’s consistant! Sorry bout that folks!

“Why must you always scowl so, little brother?” Aegon asked, clearly amused as the carriage rolled along on the cobbled street. It was raining out and Jon had previously planned on catching up on reading through some manuscripts, staying nice and dry and comfortable. But now he finds himself being practically dragged from his submissions to attend some dance or soiree that his brother has decided he must simply attend. “One day the wind will change, and your face shall be left in a permanent state of displeasure,” Aegon grinned, “morose in perpetuum.”

“Must you butcher a language to tease me, Egg?” Jon huffed, ruffling his hand through his hair. He needed to visit a barber, his curls were not willing to conform this evening. The carriage wheel hit a break in the cobbles hard and Jon reached out to steady himself at the lurch. “Remind me again why you insisted on this outing? If I have to endure another round of mothers foisting their unwed daughters under my nose once it’s clear they’ve not taken your fancy, I’ll-”

“Not fond of my cast-offs, dear brother?”

Jon closed his eyes and rubbed at his forehead. “Don’t call them that. You know that’s not what I meant.” He peered out of the window with a sigh that turned into a frown. “Where are we heading anyway?” He had assumed they’d been on their way to Visenya Hill what with a few invitations to balls and socials in that district having arrived. Aegon smirked.

“Silk Street.”

“Silk Street? Who do we know from Silk Street?” Jon asked, his brows drawing up.

“No one.”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Well?”

“Dear little brother,” Aegon started. Jon hated when he used that phrase in such a condescending tone. Aegon leant forwards, eyes aglow with delight. “Tonight, I have managed to get us an ‘in’ to a wonderous place indeed.”

Letting his head roll back against the carriage padding, Jon let out an almighty groan. “Must you talk in riddles? I’m meant to be finding the next Gaskell or Brontë, not galivanting about town-”

“Not Dickens then?” Aegon interrupted.

“The next Dickens would be ideal in terms of pure sales volume alone, yes. But I find that he-“ Jon had lifted his head to look at his brother then and found him only grinning that insufferable grin of his. As their father’s heir to the Targaryen estate, Aegon did not understand Jon’s insistence of trying to forge a career for himself. Their Great-Uncle Aemon - rather the black-sheep of the family - refused to take up the mantle of Lord Targaryen, Earl of Dragonstone, instead he started Targaryen House Publishing, and received great success. Jon was diligently trying to follow in his Uncle Aemon’s footsteps by learning the business of books and attempting to discover his own emerging stars in the world of publishing. “You’re mocking me,” Jon deduced, calling his brother out.

“You’ll find your breakthrough novel, I’m sure,” Aegon said, sitting back and allowing a change in seriousness to his demeanour. For all his teasing, Aegon knew his brother well and had learnt to identify when he was skirting too close to the line. The coachman above them slowed the horses causing Aegon’s grin to reappear. “We’re here,” he announced, placing his top hat upon his head and barely waiting for the carriage to come to a stop before alighting it at once. Jon huffed and followed.

“And where is ‘here’ exactly?” Jon asked his brother once he’d caught up. He’d been past Silk Street in the carriage a good amount of times during the season, attending this gathering or that – but he struggled to think of who may have invited them here. The lamps were alight and the rain was an annoying fine mist in the dark air. There was a gathering of gentlemen in top hats and tailcoats outside one residence a few paces ahead of them. Jon could only just make out that there was some kind of disagreement afoot.

“I’m terribly sorry gentlemen, but without an express invitation from Madame, I cannot allow you to enter,” a butler was relaying. The men around him grumbled in unison.

“We attended last week, surely, my good man, we cannot be turned out?” one man argued.

“Do you know with whom you are speaking with?” Another added.

“As I said to you sir, Madame Tyrell has left strict instructions that numbers to this evening’s soiree be kept rather limited. I apologise, but there is nothing to be done.”

Jon and Aegon passed the group of men, with Jon trying to politely avoid eye-contact with those who had been denied entry, and Aegon not caring at all, only surging forward in anticipation. Jon recognised one of the men as Jaime Lannister, a prominent member of the _haut ton_ here in town and heir to the Lannister fortune. If he had been turned away, then what hope had they?

“Right this way, Mr Targaryen,” the butler bowed after Aegon gave his name. Jon gaped at the foyer of the residence. Yellow roses dripped from every conceivable surface. A rope of green foliage wrapped around the polished mahogany double bannisters that wound around the entrance and led upstairs from both directions. Dotted within the leafy decoration were little frilly faces of golden petals in all sizes right from sprays of tiny buds to huge blooms bigger than Jon’s palm. The air was scented with flora and spice, and Jon realised that the décor seemed overly lavish even for that of a gathering of the ton.

Then it dawned on him.

“Madame Tyrell?” He muttered under his breath as he came to a halt in the middle of the entrance hall directly beneath the glittering crystal chandelier. His brother turned to look at him expectantly.

“Come on, Jon,” Aegon urged with a huff.

“It-“ Jon stuttered, “it was mentioned outside that this is Madame Tyrell’s residence?” Aegon only raised his brows in answer, prompting Jon to continue. “ _The_ Madame Tyrell?!” he hurried to his brother’s side to continue in a hushed tone as the butler had turned to eye him curiously, “ _The Golden Rose?!”_ Jon whispered, “ _the famed courtesan of the demi-monde?!”_

“Why, little brother - you do surprise me!” Aegon grinned and clasped him on the back as he urged him to continue walking, “I would never have thought a bore such as yourself would have knowledge of _‘The Golden Rose’._ ”

Jon shrugged his brother’s arm from around his shoulders. He was trying his patience again. “Just because I spend my time in town differently to the way you do, does not make me a bore!” _I have work to do,_ Jon fumed internally, _I’m not solely preoccupied with making a match or dalliances with the fairer sex!_ His scowl had returned which only seemed to amuse Aegon even further. The butler waited a few paces away, giving them a glance that sparked a bit of guilt within Jon; the man obviously had better things to be doing than wait around listening to them squabbling like schoolboys. Jon threw out a brief look of apology but pressed on with his brother anyway. “How did you even secure an invite?” He ducked his head and lowered his voice again, “I’ve heard Madame Tyrell is very select with her company,” he whispered. Jon knew that his family were well regarded within the circles of aristocracy, but if they’re turning away even the likes of Jaime Lannister, heir to one of the wealthiest families in the country, then how on earth did Aegon get his mitts on an invitation?

Aegon only tapped at the side of his nose conspiratorially. “I pulled a few strings. Besides, word is going about that she’s looking for a new long-term benefactor,” he said, waggling those eyebrows of his again.

Jon wrinkled his nose. “Aren’t you meant to be in town searching for a wife?”

“Can’t a man have both?” Aegon smiled widely, clearly amused. Everything amused his brother. The man’s whole damn life was one amusement after another.

Sighing and pinching at the bridge of his nose, Jon pointed his next query to Aegon’s shoes. “You can’t be serious, Egg. You’d dishonour a wife in such a way?” Aegon’s grin faltered, he knew the scandal that surrounded Jon’s birth. He knew the whispers that came when their father, Rhaegar Targaryen took a second wife just days after his first had departed this world. Aegon was aware, just as Jon, that Lord Targaryen fled Elia’s deathbed before the linens had chance to turn cold, to return not a month later with a wife already holding a babe in her arms. _“The boy’s a bastard and she his mistress-turned-wife!”_ Jon remembered overhearing the servants gossiping when he was merely seven years of age - not that he’d been aware what the words had meant at the time. He’d asked father and poor Bessie, the scullery maid was thrown out on her ear without the promise of a good reference. Rhaegar had told Jon not to worry about _those words_ , which only served to sear them in his mind long after he’d learnt what they’d meant and of whom Bessie had been referring to. Lyanna, Jon’s mother had contracted consumption when he was a boy of nine. He missed her terribly even now at the age of 23, but the unacknowledged whispers had remained long after her death. _Mistress….bastard…._

“I-“ Aegon starts, and Jon half expects him to say that _‘no, he would not partake in infidelity’_. Not that Jon would believe him fully. His brother had an appetite for the attentions of the fairer sex as well of that for thrills. No – securing a courtesan is exactly the type of thing Jon could picture Aegon doing. Aegon looked around, searching for the answer in their lavish surroundings. “I don’t think I could afford her by the looks of it anyway,” he japed, “and besides,” Aegon peers past the butler still patiently waiting for them to finish their conversation and towards the murmurings of the soiree beyond the grand double-doors, “looks like I have stiff competition – sounds like half of King’s Landing’s gentry is in there!” he chuckled.

Jon couldn’t help but smile. “Except Jaime Lannister,” he quipped.

Aegon let out a laugh that was quickly silenced by the stern look from the butler. The man obviously preferred to keep frivolities and merrymaking to the confines of the designated parlours. “Come on, brother” Aegon said, clearing his throat and straightening his collar, “you only live once. And what’s life without a bit of fun, hey old chap?”

Jon rolled his eyes but followed his brother and the butler through the double doors.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's POV

Sansa stood on the small balcony that overlooked Margaery’s entertainment parlour. The space had the feel of a ballroom, it certainly felt grand enough. And yet it wasn’t quite as big as the ones she’d attended back during her coming out and first season in town a few years ago - before Harry, before Waymar, when she had been a silly little girl who believed in love. She took a deep drag of air in through her nose and out again as she surveyed the scene before her, hoping that none of tonight’s attendees were also present during her coming out.

Margaery had declared that this evening was unofficially for _her_  – that she was going to do everything in her power to find her a good steady income from a man who would apparently become _“absolutely besotted by you, darling”_. In truth, the Golden Rose had tried to tempt Sansa with the benefits of entertaining a few interested parties simultaneously, but that had not appealed to Sansa one bit – she may be selling her company, but doing so to more than one gentleman was a step too far. Margaery simply shook her head like she’d said something terribly amusing and proclaimed that _“as long as they dip you into a delicious pool of adoration and you come out dripping in diamonds, then I’ll consider my work done, my dear Alayne.”_

Sansa hadn’t been so sure about the ‘dripping in diamonds’ part – Waymar had given her many a fine bauble but looking around at her lavish surroundings put the contents of her vanity case to shame. One could certainly see why Margaery is one of the famed _grande horizontales_ here in town, the room below was packed with all manner of gentleman, tall, short, round, slim, young and middle-aged, all come to see the spectacle that is The Golden Rose. Every now and again, dotted amongst the sea of black, grey and navy coat-tails Sansa spied a lady or two, some already on the arm of a man, some clearly doing their upmost to tempt themselves a benefactor just as Sansa was there to do – there weren’t many though, the number of men greatly outweighed that of women. _There certainly aren’t enough couples for a decent dance should the evening call for it,_ Sansa thought.

Amongst the chattering and guffawing menfolk, there were a few tables set up with delights for the guests – one with a huge cut crystal punch bowl filled with some exotic looking concoction being served by one of Miss Tyrell’s footmen. Another was filled with a mountain of fresh oysters sitting in a bed of ice, and another with a massive display of custom made chocolates. Sansa had seen them when they had arrived, Margaery having commissioned the finest chocolatier in town to sculpt little white chocolate roses – and for every five flower treats, one could find a chocolate in a shade of pink and shaped like that of the intimate areas of a lady. She remembers blushing profusely when she’d noticed what they were – she can feel the heat on her cheeks now that she looks down to see a few gentlemen chuckling over finding one of the risqué sweets. And then everything – as always with Margaery, Sansa is coming to learn – is framed in golden yellow roses. The floral scent permeated the air and mixed with something spicy that Sansa could not quite name – it was wholly intoxicating.

Sansa sighed. She really should go down and mingle with the gentlemen guests, but there were so many! It was a little intimidating.

“Not quite the den of iniquity you were expecting?” she hears Margaery comment from behind her, making her jump a little in surprise.

“I wasn’t expect-“ Sansa began to say, only to turn and have her words lodge in her throat. Margaery came up beside her, palms braced on the bannister to look out over her guests. She was wearing the most dazzling diamond necklace Sansa had ever seen, the piece was huge and glittered all the way around her neck. The earrings matched, sending out blinding sparkles from where they caught the lights from the grand chandeliers overhead and dangled gracefully by her creamy neck. Half her hair was scooped and curled, pinned artfully to the top of her head, and on one side sat more diamonds twinkling as they nestled in her chocolate brown locks. From her hair pin came a spray of fine exotic looking feathers, only one of which Sansa could name the bird as being that of a peacock. But it wasn’t all of this that had made Sansa almost gasp out aloud, it was the fact that Margaery was not wearing a gown as to be expected, but a luxurious looking black silk robe with embroidery of golden thread. The woman looked as though she was halfway through getting dressed to entertain upon a stage, and yet here she was, in plain view of her guests should they care to look up, in nothing but a… a _dressing-gown!_

Margaery only smirked in response to Sansa’s widening eyes. “Do you like it, Alayne?” she asked when she caught her staring at the area where her robe crossed over her chest.

“It’s…it’s lovely,” she stuttered, “but surely you can’t greet your guests… half-dressed?”

Margaery let out a musical kind of laugh. “My dear Alayne, I’ve greeted guests in much less than this! Why, this is positively prudish in comparison. I merely did not wish to distract the gentlemen from the main attraction tonight.”

Sansa eyed the robe and sheer amount of diamonds that adorned the woman stood next to her and severely doubted that anyone could describe Margaery Tyrell as anything _but_ a distraction. She felt positively dowdy in comparison, even though she wore her pretty duck-egg blue satin gown with a fine ivory lace overly. It had been one of her favourites from Waymar, and one of only a few gowns that bared her shoulders fully. The neckline swooped dangerously low and Margaery’s maidservant had laced her into her corset so tight her bosoms felt as though they might spill out over the boning.

As if by magic, Margaery pulled out a pair of opera glasses seemingly out of nowhere at all. She brought them up to her eyes and peered out over the positive sea of gentlemen below them. “Now then, who do we have on offer tonight? Anyone that you’ve taken a fancy to?”

Sansa opened her mouth but promptly shut it again. She’d been too busy with the spectacle of the evening to even begin to observe the guests. A rather large, older man jolted her with his sudden booming laughter as he’d obviously found one of the indecent pink chocolates. Sansa studied his red, sweaty face and grey whiskers peppered with white. She grimaced at the thought of pleasing him the way she had Waymar.

“Oh, no, Lord Manderly would not do for you, darling,” Margaery chimed in, following Sansa’s line of vision, “I’d thought that the night I’d entertained him may be my very last on this earth! So heavy he almost crushed me!” she laughed, “no, no, he won’t do at all… how about… _him._ ” Margaery grinned and offered her opera glasses to Sansa. “Lord Martell, Earl of Sunspear, the gentleman just now being served punch. Do you see?”

Sansa sought out the man in question. He was handsome and looked to be jovial in spirits as he took his offered drink and laughed with another gentleman.

Margaery leant in close to whisper in Sansa’s ear – not that there was anyone else around to hear her words. “Oberyn is a very adventurous lover.”

Sansa flushed, not _quite_ sure what Margaery had meant by that. Her attention was then taken by two gentlemen making their way through the crowd towards the punch bowl. One, leading the way, with straight silvery hair the likes of which Sansa had never seen, and the other with curls as dark as ink. They both shook hands with Lord Martell and as the darker haired gentleman shifted to grant Sansa a view of his face through the opera glasses, she felt a handful of forceful thuds rattle against her ribs. His eyes were dark and his beard framed the plumpest lips she’d ever seen on a man. “Who is _that?”_ she almost whispered, feeling her satin gloved hand come up to lightly touch her collarbone.

“Some lucky fellow piqued your interest, darling?” Margaery smirked, taking back the offered glasses and peering through them. “The Targaryens?” She lowered the opera glasses and raised one perfect brow as she turned to face Sansa, “good breeding, old name, if we set a contract with the eldest, Aegon, you’ll be rather comfortable. Unfortunately, I’ve no knowledge of the man himself or his appetites in the bedroom, so I’m unable to guide you there, my dear.”

“Which one is the eldest?” Sansa asked, her eyes trained on the dark-haired Targaryen.

“The one with the dashing silver hair.”

“Oh.”

Sansa felt Margaery’s eyes on her again. “You favour the spare over the heir? As a woman of business, I should advise you against it and turn you towards a more lucrative arrangement, but as a woman of pleasure, I say there’s nothing wrong with a bit of fun.” The glasses raised to her eyes again as she scrutinised the younger Targaryen. “There’s some scandal or other surrounding his birth, not that I know the details, but I do so love a scandal!... He’s handsome too… if you can overlook the scowling.”

“He’s not scowling,” Sansa found herself defending the man, “he looks… contemplative.”

Margaery giggled. “However you want to spin it, my dear!” She leant in to whisper again, “do you think he looks so dour as he finishes?”

“Finishes what?”

A laugh burst out from Margaery’s chest before she raised a hand to pinch at Sansa’s cheek. “Oh Alayne! I’m in two minds as to whether I should share you with any of these scoundrels at all, my sweet. They don’t deserve you!”

Realisation washed over Sansa and she felt her skin flush to a shade that must surely match that of a raspberry. Flashes of pinched expressions that Waymar would make before he’d groan, and his face melted into the very picture of bliss, eyes closed, mouth agape as he panted his release. Her eyes found the younger Targaryen brother again, only to find him looking up at the balcony, staring directly at her, his hand paused midway to his mouth with the crystal tumbler of punch in its grasp. He lowered it slowly and continued to stare.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's POV

“Egg, who is _that?”_ Jon nudges his brother with his elbow as his pulse thunders in his ears. His mouth is dry, but he can’t seem to bring his punch to his lips to quench his thirst, all he can do is gape like a fool at the beauty with the fire red hair.

Aegon follows Jon’s line of vision up to a small balcony overlooking the festivities and lets out a low whistle of appreciation as he rocks back on his heels. “Bloody hell! Do you think she’s got anything on under that robe?” he asked, practically salivating. “That must be our esteemed hostess, no?”

“What?” Jon flushed only just now noticing the half-dressed woman, “no, not her, the redhead. Who is _she_?”

“Bugger if I know,” Aegon shrugged, “some toffer for sale.”

Jon’s eyes widened. “Egg!” he hissed, “you cannot say such things!”

His brother only scoffed. “Look around us little brother,” he gestured with his crystal tumbler of punch, “every one of the ladies in this room is on offer to be bought. They may not be _three-penny-uprights,_ but they’re hardly part of polite upstanding society.”

Jon felt himself flush. He knows that his elder brother has visited a brothel or two with some of his friends, but Jon never liked to partake. He remembers accompanying his father on a trip to town when he were but a mere lad of 14. A sickeningly skinny girl wearing dirty clothes and weeks of grease in her hair followed them as they walked from one social call to another, trying her luck in the more affluent part of town before the authorities caught wind and would move her on. _“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir”_ he can still remember her saying, _“can I tempt you?”_ she’d hitched her skirt then to flash her grubby stockings, Jon had halted in his tracks to gape having never seen such a thing before, but his father continued to walk, ignoring the spectacle. Still, the girl persisted as she hurried to try and keep up with Lord Targaryen’s strides. _“A shilling for the best thrill of yer life, sir, you can do what yer want with me, I won’t mind_ ,” she started to look desperate as she continued to be ignored. _“Thrupenny then… an’ I’ll get on me knees for yer sir… please,”_ she began to beg, _“please… I need trade to feed my children!”_

The desperation that had been in the girl’s voice had haunted Jon into manhood and had caused him to vow never to use a woman thusly, and in turn, he had never experienced the lusty touch of a woman. In truth, as he had grown, his priorities had laid solely with his career and studies – learning the ropes of the business from Uncle Aemon. Activities of a carnal nature could wait until marriage as far as Jon was concerned.

Glancing back up to the balcony, Jon’s heart sinks to see it now bare. His eyes scan the room, but he cannot seem to spot the beautiful girl with red hair and pale skin like a tempting bowl of strawberries and cream. Jon’s search was abruptly interrupted by the appearance of one of Aegon’s acquaintances and their talk turns to the season and various members of the ton.

“Excuse me gentlemen,” comes the interruption of a sultry voice a few minutes later, and Jon is left to feel his heartbeat skipping when he realises the owner of said voice is the half-dressed woman and with her is the red-headed beauty from the balcony. She blinks at him with eyes of azure and a smile that turns his insides to molten anticipation before her friend ploughs on. “Oberyn! Darling!” the brunette in the robe practically sings as she steps forward to kiss Martell on both cheeks. “Come,” she urges, nudging the redhead towards the Earl of Sunspear, “meet Miss Alayne Stone.”

“Pleased to meet you Lord Martell,” the girl says with a polite bob and a voice that coils around the base of Jon’s spine.

Oberyn smiled with warmth at Miss Stone and bowed as he took her hand, placing a kiss on her knuckles. Keeping his lips pressed to her skin for an indecent amount of time, he glanced up at her through his lashes. “When in the presence of beauty such as yours, Alayne, the pleasure is all mine, I can assure you.”

Jon felt annoyance at the informality the Earl had shown her – the use of her Christian name upon first meeting and the forwardness of the man to allow his lips to linger on her skin. Miss Stone blushed the most incredible shade of cherry-blossom pink and let out a giggle that did something to Jon’s nerves that confused him somewhat.

“Oh,” the woman in the robe feigns surprise as she turns to Jon and his brother, “and who do we have here?” She grins at them both, eyeing them up and down in a manner that made Jon uncomfortable but seemed to please Aegon. Allowing his brother to make the introductions, Jon’s eyes flit to Miss Stone a time or two only to find her looking at him in turn. They both promptly avert their sights, but Jon felt the pull of her like magnetism and this time his eyes were met with an encouraging looking smile.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” their hostess answered Aegon’s introduction with a wicked grin and a twinkle in her eye, “I do hope you enjoy this evening’s festivities… both of you.”

There was a pause in the conversation and Jon realised that the Golden Rose was looking at him whereas he had been wholly pre-occupied with Miss Stone. “Uh, yes!” he spluttered, feeling embarrassment rise on his cheeks, “my brother and I were, _um,_ very happy to receive an invite.” Miss Tyrell said nothing, only continuing to smirk up at Jon, watching him closely as his eyes flit back to towards Miss Stone. He licked his lips and grappled for something more to say. “Your home is beautiful. The… _ah_ … the roses everywhere really are quite something.”

_‘Really are quite something’ Jon? What an utter foozler you can be sometimes!_

Swallowing down the mortification that accompanied the rather awkward exchange, Jon shifted to subtly face Miss Stone, expecting the introductions to extend.

“Well,” the Golden Rose smiled, “do try the chocolates, I’ve had them made especially…” she reached back to loop her arm through Miss Stone’s, “you may find them quite amusing. Come Alayne, let’s take a turn about the room, there are many more people I wish you to meet!” And with that, Margaery Tyrell pulled Miss Stone away in an excitable manner with nary a hint of an introduction. Jon watched them go with his brows pulled up, stunned and mightily disappointed. Miss Stone glance back at him once but the Golden Rose only tugged her along with more vigour.

“It seems Margaery has found her new project,” Oberyn comments, bringing back Jon’s attention. He tipped his crystal tumbler up to his mouth with a chuckle.

“What do you mean?”

“Only that Miss Tyrell enjoys helping her friends, especially the women she takes a liking to. I suspect Miss Stone to be one of those such friends. You see how she drags the poor girl from man to man?” Oberyn nod his head in the direction of the ladies now talking to a group of gentlemen by the huge mountain of oysters on ice. “Margaery has connections. She’s helping this _Miss Stone_ to find the right person to sell her… _talents_ to.”

Jon began to wonder even further at the way Miss Tyrell had denied him an introduction. And then he began to wonder at these _‘talents’_ Alayne Stone might have. Glancing to where she was downing an oyster in the most demure fashion she could manage, Jon flushed and swallowed down the images in his mind.

“Are you interested?” Aegon asked the Earl, bringing Jon’s attention back to the conversation once more. He raised his brows and awaited the man’s answer, unknowingly holding his breath.

Oberyn’s mouth turned down at the corners as if assessing his options for a business venture. “She is a beauty,” his eyes found Miss Stone again and he smiled widely, “all that red hair spilling across a feather pillow would be enticing, no?”

Jon sought out the women in question and found himself biting down on his bottom lip. _Very, very enticing indeed,_ he thought as he watched Miss Stone laugh at some lord’s comment.

“I may enquire after a contract,” Lord Martell finished, making Jon tear his eyes from Miss Stone again. He didn’t like the saucy look on Martell’s face as he watched Miss Stone. “And you?” he asked them both, indicating to each in turn with the base of his tumbler, “are either of you here with a view to partake in the delights of the fairer sex?”

Aegon grinned and opened his mouth to answer, but Jon was faster. “I think that’s rather a forward question, don’t you?” He felt his features harden, but Oberyn’s smile only widened in response.

“How is it that your brother is so serious… and yet so amusing?” he asked Aegon. “It really is a special skill.”

A barbed retort was on the tip of Jon’s tongue, but after a brief internal debate, he decided against using it. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen,” he bowed and stalked away using long strides to distance himself from any further teasing. Why must everyone find everything so amusing? Was it him? Is he truly too sullen and serious to be able to enjoy life?

“I don’t believe we were properly introduced,” came the unexpected voice from directly in front of him. Jon had been in such a world of his own surly making, he had not noticed that he’d practically stormed his way to the other end of the room and landed right beside the offering of chocolates. “Are you… are you alright?” The voice continued, and Jon had to blink double-time to make sure his eyes were not deceiving him. The owner of said voice appeared to be none other than that of Miss Alayne Stone. His mouth opened but promptly closed again as his brain whirred around to try and engage itself with the here and now. “You look…” she started again, her brows pinched with concern, “… _upset.”_

“What?” he spluttered, suddenly feeling rather too hot in his coattails. He forced himself to smile. “No, no! I… my brother does rather enjoy teasing me,” Jon explained, his words coming out in a rush and stumbling over one another, “I thought it best to… distance myself before… before…”

 _Before what, Jon? Before you made a scene? Before you acted uncouthly? Don’t paint yourself in such a way! Think before you speak, idiot!_ Miss Stone continued to blink those dazzling blue eyes at him expectantly. _Heavens!_ Jon thought to himself, _I could drown in those eyes._ He only just managed to keep enough wits about himself to clear his throat and completely avoid completing his sentence. “Jon, Jon Targaryen,” he introduced himself with a bow. Her lips curled up to a smile as she gave her own name and offered her hand. He took it, bending to press his lips to her knuckles as he’d witnessed the Earl of Sunspear do, although he was not so bold as to linger as the older gentlemen had done – however much he would have liked to. Her skin was soft and creamy, it smelt of some form of lady’s lotion – something sweet and floral.

“Have you tried the chocolates, Mr Targaryen?” Miss Stone asked, gesturing to the table beside them both.

Jon’s eyes flit to the sweet treats on offer as he tried to calm his nerves. “Ah, roses,” he smiled, “I should have guessed.”

“Margaery does like to keep to a theme,” Miss Stone laughed.

Blindly picking up a chocolate, Jon felt himself grin back at the beauty before he glanced at the sweet in his hand. It was pink. “Oh,” he said, brows drawn, “I think this one is somewhat misshapen.”

A giggle burst from between Miss Stone’s lips before she promptly opened her fan and hid half her face behind it. “I think the pink coloured ones are meant to be… flowers of a _different_ kind, Mr Targaryen.”

 _Flowers of a diff-_ Jon’s mind whipped through all the illustrated botanical books he’d ever looked over before. _From somewhere_ – he remembered an image from another kind of book… a biology book… a book on anatomy and specifically an illustrated page he’d seen as a lad that depicted the human reproductive organs in rather an explicit manner. He felt himself flush scarlet red. “Oh, I… well…”

Miss Stone laughed softly from behind her fan once more as Jon stood there with a miniature chocolate replica of a woman’s intimate areas in the palm of his hand without a damn clue what to do with the thing. She leant forward and whispered. “I think you’re meant to eat it, Mr Targaryen.”

He swallowed awkwardly and cleared his throat once more. “Yes… quite… “ he mumbled before the chocolate made its way to his mouth and Miss Stone watched him chew.

“Margaery likes to shock and thrill her guests.”

“I think she may have succeeded,” Jon answered with a grin as he could still taste the chocolate coating his mouth.

Talk turned to decidedly less risqué subjects as Jon found his nerves quieting somewhat. She was bright, this _Miss Stone_ , she had an ease in conversation that Jon had rarely experienced with the fairer sex. After more pleasant talk, and a few additional botanically shaped chocolates were devoured, Miss Stone began enquiring after his line of business and Jon found himself enthused to discuss it.

“How wonderful!” she had exclaimed with a certain kind of bewitching light in her eyes. “Being one of the first to read all those new stories, the first to visit all those different worlds!”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Jon smiled.

“Oh, I should very much like to lose myself in some brand new fantastical tales.”

“You think I should be searching for the fantastical? Rather than stories of truth or realism, Miss Stone?”

Alayne looked down demurely before dragging her sights slowly back up to meet his eyes. “The truth is always either terrible or boring, Mr Targaryen. I should rather take the fantastical over any of that.”

Jon pursed his lips, about to comment whilst also wondering at the sad undertone of her observation, when they were interrupted by Miss Tyrell. “Terribly sorry, but I simply must steal my darling Alayne away,” she says with a grin as she’s already looped an arm through Miss Stone’s and is pulling her along.

“Oh, I suspect that you’re not sorry at all, Miss Tyrell,” Jon manages, despite his irritation at being deprived of more of Miss Stone’s company. The Golden Rose throws him a self-satisfied smile from over her shoulder before he watches her give a nod to one of her footmen and then indicate back to Jon. The footman in question then moves to approach him with a silver tray held aloft.

“For you, sir,” the man comments with a small bow, lifting the shiny silver cloche from atop the tray. Jon stares at nothing but a small, gold piece of card. His eyes flicker to the footman as if he would be able to explain, but the man only inclines his head to urge Jon to take the offered item. He picks it up and turns the card around to read the swirling elegant script decorating the small note.

_You have been invited to join the hostess and select guests for cards and parlour games in the Thorn Suite after this evening’s festivities have waned._

“How the bloody hell did _you_ get one of those?!” Aegon exclaimed as he came to Jon’s side. He looked rather put out as he snatched the card from Jon’s hands. Jon promptly swiped it back. “Receiving a golden card is rarer than hen’s teeth!”

“Why? Didn’t you get given one, _brother?”_ Jon responded, feeling pride at being the amused party for once.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's POV
> 
> Thank you so, so much to all those who have been leaving such lovely comments on this fic! I’m overwhelmed by how well it’s been received because (and Vivi and Tanya can attest to this) I was worried about it! So thank you so much!
> 
> Ok, so for this chapter you were probably expecting to see what happens in the Thorn Suite... Sorry - it’s Sansa’s PoV for the period of time before that :(

_‘Seduce him’,_ Margaery had said as they’d made their way downstairs from the balcony, _‘seduce them all, darling!’_ Sansa wasn’t so sure on how to do that exactly. She knew how to be agreeable, and perhaps somewhat _flirtatious,_ but… how does one seduce a man precisely? Harry had barely said three words to her and she was already swept away with that heady rush of what she thought was love, and Waymar, well – Mr Baelish had handled all of that. So, Sansa was quite at a loss as to how to entice the right gentleman.

When Margaery had practically all but dragged her up to where the Targaryens were stood talking to Lord Martell and a few others, Sansa’s heart had leapt up to her throat and she’d prepared herself to be introduced to the owner of the inky curls, granite grey eyes and those rather interesting looking lips. But, just as Sansa expected the introduction, Margaery was whisking her away without so much of a chance of a _‘how do you do?’_

 _“Always keep him wanting more, Alayne dear,”_ her mentor had whispered in her ear as she pulled Sansa away from almost drowning in the stormy sea of Jon Targaryen’s eyes. _“Besides,”_ Margaery had continued, _“it would not do to put all your eggs in that sullen-looking basket.”_

 _“Because he may not wish to enter a contract with me?”_ Sansa had asked, feeling an uncomfortable jab in her stomach at the thought.

Margaery scoffed. _“Ha! No, not that, darling girl!”_ she’d bent her head towards Sansa to whisper as they meandered through the crowd, _“the poor man wants you, that was clearly evident. Why, I was half worried he’d throw you over my punch table and mount you then and there!”_

_“Margaery!”_

_“No,”_ the Golden Rose continued, not batting an eyelid at Sansa’s thoroughly scandalised gasp, _“if we play this right, introduce you to a few more interested parties, then you could have the makings of a very beneficial contract indeed my dear!”_ Margaery grinned. Sansa’s eyes sought out the only introduction she felt any yearning for. He was talking to Lord Martell again.

And then, after a turn or two about the room with introductions to various members of the gentry attending tonight, Maragery had spied Jon Targaryen storming off alone and had near enough shoved Sansa in his direction to go make herself known to him. Sansa’s rather glad that she had done so – he was quite charming, and she had even managed to flirt a little… although she’s still not sure how to cross the line into that of a seductress, but a brief discussion centring around a chocolate replica of a lady’s delicate area was at least a step in the right direction... she thinks.

But _oh!_ How his eyes had lit up at talk of his career! She’d said something rather gushing and silly about losing one’s self in a fantastical story – She likes to read often, loving the offer of escape within the turn of a page. And then her thoughts had returned to her past and the reason she clings to the fantastical escapism in the first place. Sansa hopes she did not make a fool of herself in front of him.

And now Margaery was ushering her into one of her currently empty entertaining suites – a smaller function room which was more dimly lit and where a hired musician was already plinking away a mellow tune on the pianoforte in the corner. A large green-felted round card table sat in the middle. “This is where the final stages of sealing the deal comes to play,” Margaery informed her over her shoulder as she walked purposefully to a drinks cabinet. She poured herself some amber liquid in a whiskey glass and swiftly knocked it back before clicking her fingers for a manservant to arrive with two glasses of bubbles presented on a silver tray. Sansa took the offered drink. It had a raspberry bobbing in it.

“Sealing the deal?” Sansa asked, her brows drawn up as she takes a sip. She liked the sweetness behind the fizz so promptly took another.

“Yes,” the Golden Rose answered, “for all the bawdy japes and lewd conversation my guests will indulge in _out there,_ the majority will not wish all and sundry to know that they seriously intend on entering a contract with women _like us_ – especially considering more than half of them are married-“

“They are?” Sansa spluttered into her drink before internally chastising herself for being so naive still. She pat her wet lips with the pads of her fingers and cleared her throat to ask the question at the very tip of her tongue before Margaery could plough on with her explanation. “Is…is Jon Targaryen married?... do you know?” Margaery smirked knowingly and shook her head, making Sansa feel somewhat lighter.

“So,” Sansa’s mentor continued, “in order to induce a certain _mise en scène_ of intimacy, I’ve selected a few suitable candidates to join us here for some card games.” Somehow Margaery had finished her drink and was clicking her fingers for another to arrive before she continued on. “Think of it as something akin to a wild cat, stalking a heard of beasts, selecting the tastiest morsel to bring down. First, we need to isolate them from the rest of the herd,” she paused, indicating with an inclination of her head towards the door they’d just entered through, “then, we observe and distract them with the ultimate temptation,” Margeary’s eyes glittered as she reached out and twirled a tendril of Sansa’s copper locks around her fingers. “And finally,” she said, her face aglow with primal delight as she gave a gentle tug to Sansa’s hair, “ _we go in for the kill.”_

 _“_ But… I don’t know how to distract anyone with the _‘ultimate temptation’_ … or go in for the kill.”

“Oh, Alayne,” Margaery smiled, reaching across to fuss with the fabric at the front of Sansa’s dress, “ _you are_ the temptation, my dear girl. Very tempting indeed… leave the kill to me if needs must.” She fiddled with her necklace and moved around wisps of her hair before she seemed satisfied with how Sansa was put together. “Now, follow my lead if you’re unsure of what to do, but mainly, be your charming self. Remember – they’ll want someone with whom they can hold a riveting conversation after they’ve fucked you thoroughly, so it’s important to dazzle them with your charm and wit as well as your smile and your tits.”

Stunned, Sansa felt her mouth fall open before she heard the murmur of men coming into the room behind her.

“Gentlemen! Welcome!” Margaery smiled warmly at her personally selected guests, greeting them with arms flung wide and a saucy glint in her eye.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's POV
> 
> This chapter got quite long so I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> FYI - I don't play poker myself so I hope that part makes sense!

Jon was beginning to wonder if being given the _‘privilege’_ of a golden card was worth it at all when he was led with five other gentlemen through Miss Tyrell’s expansive townhouse. A Mr Justin Massey was twittering on about something by his side, an eternal smile plastered on his face. His hair was a pale flaxen colour that reminded him far too much of his own brother. He seemed amused by everything too. In front of them walked Tanton Fossoway and Amory Lorch, the latter who was rapidly grating on Jon’s nerves with his poor manners. Oberyn took up the rear of the party, along with the Earl of Pyke – a Lord Theon Greyjoy – another man who seemed to think that everything and anything was fit for his amusement.

_Perhaps it is just me? Perhaps I am too serious?_

They were shown by a footman to a much smaller room which was dimly lit, a man was playing a soft tune on the pianoforte in the corner. And then he spotted Miss Stone with her back to the arriving party and he’d forgotten all about being irritated at his fellow golden card recipients.

Miss Tyrell sang out some kind of welcome that Jon did not hear and ushered a manservant to offer out some single malt and cigars. She flit from gentleman to gentleman with a smile and an intelligent look in her eye. The Earl of Pyke sequestered Miss Stone away in a corner with a jovial expression and an easy laugh – much to Jon’s ire. He pondered on whether he should impede on the intimacy Greyjoy had created in manoeuvring them away from everyone else by joining them in conversation.

“What’s your story then, Targaryen?” Mr Lorch interrupted Jon’s internal debate. He opened his mouth but felt himself caught short at the sight of an infernal smirk on the man’s face, half his lips hanging on to his already lit cigar. He took a drag and puffed out the smoke directly between them. “Have a bastard’s fancy to that pretty piece over there?” he nodded in the direction of where Miss Stone and Theon Greyjoy were talking. Jon began to seethe but the infuriating man ploughed on. “It would have to be her though, wouldn’t it? I don’t suppose you’ve got the means for even a night with the Golden Rose? Eh, bastard?”

Jon squared himself up to the man, about to ask if he should like to take this conversation outside before Margaery Tyrell clapped her hands and declared that they should play a parlour game. He contented himself with giving Mr Lorch a warning glare.

"Let's play Forfeit," the Golden Rose announced happily. Jon groaned internally, he hated any games where there was a high possibility of embarrassment. “I’ll be judge,” she continued, “so while I’m out, you all have to place an item belonging to you onto the trolley.”

With that, Maragery Tyrell sauntered from the room, leaving them to do as she bid. There were a few chuckles as pocket-watches, cufflinks, a signet ring, a tie pin and a money clip were all left on top of the trolley’s surface. Jon fished around in his trouser pocket and came out with an innocuous-looking propelling pencil. He dropped it to add to the other objects and turned to realise Miss Stone was right beside him, looking a little worriedly at the group offerings.

“Miss Stone?” he prompted, bringing her eyes up to his. Her gloved hand was delicately rubbing at the very base of her throat. “Do you not favour the game?” _I know I don’t._

“Oh no,” Alayne said, dropping her hand, her eyes going back to the trolley, “I enjoy games, very much so,” she confessed, looking back up to him, “even if I suspect Margaery will conjure the most frightfully embarrassing forfeits.”

Jon felt himself grimace. His expression seemed to make Alayne’s lips twitch in mild amusement, so he exaggerated the gesture. “I confess; that is what I fear most.” His admission made her giggle lightly, a feat that he can’t say he wasn’t proud of.

“Be sure to let me know if your fear becomes too much to bear, Mr Targaryen,” she grinned, “and I shall hold your hand to calm your nerves.” Jon’s thinks that touching Miss Stone in anyway is sure to excite his nerves rather than soothe them, so after meeting her smile with one of his own, he tries to get them back to topic – her original show of concern.

“And what is it about the game that seems to worry you, Miss Stone?”

“Well,” she began, “as I am the only woman player, I don’t see how Miss Tyrell will be able to mistake my item. I have only jewellery or a glove to offer. Even my handkerchief is decidedly feminine with embroidered roses and edged in frilly Myrish lace. She’ll spot it straight away.”

“I have a solution,” Jon answered, mightily pleased with himself as he dug into his breast pocket. “Here,” he offered his unequivocally dull looking handkerchief, “use mine,” he said, placing the dark grey piece of cotton fabric in her hand, “it is mournfully lacking in embroidery or frills. She won’t suspect a thing.”

“But this is yours.”

Jon smiled. “And now it is yours.”

After all items were ‘in play’, Miss Tyrell, ‘the judge’ was called back to the room. She looked over the offerings and then smirked up at Miss Stone who had taken her place to stand beside Jon. Out of the corner of his eye, he’s sure she bit her lip and grinned back at her friend. Margaery raised an eyebrow and went back to making her selection.

“Alright,” she started, “the first person to forfeit will be….” She circled her finger as her hand hovered over the array of objects, “this one!” The Golden Rose lifted a set of silver cufflinks and Jon released the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

“Mine,” Oberyn Martell grinned.

“Excellent,” Miss Tyrell commented, crooking her forefinger to bid one of her manservants to approach. He brought a small silver tray that was set down on the serving trolley in front of her and lifted the shiny cloche before retreating to his place at the outskirts of the dim room. Under the cloche lay a small dish of ripe red strawberries. Margaery lifted a big fat one by the stalk. “Eat this,” she commanded with a saucy look.

“Well this is hardly a forfeit at all,” Oberyn commented as he swaggered forwards, making a few of the gentlemen chuckle. He swiftly approached the fruit that lay in the grasp of the Golden Rose’s outstretched hand and made to take a bite. Only Margaery was faster, she quickly snapped her hand back, leaving the Earl of Sunspear to close his teeth around thin air.

“Ah, ah, ah,” she wagged her finger and shook her head, a mischievous smile gracing her lips. “As much as I delight in the insinuation, I don’t want you eating out of my hands tonight, dear.” She took a few steps forward and found herself directly in front of Miss Stone, giving her friend a wink that Jon’s sure he was not meant be privy to, Margaery Tyrell proceeded to nestle the red berry, stalk first between Alayne Stone’s bosom. Jon’s mouth fell open. He heard Miss Stone suck in a breath. And he could not seem to take his eyes from the bright red offering sitting snuggly between the tops of her pale breasts.

“You are quite wicked, Miss Tyrell,” Lord Martell laughed and shook his head before turning his attention to Alayne. “And you, Miss Stone, are you quite fine with this forfeit I must _force myself to endure_?”

There was a collective murmured chuckle and Jon was finally able to drag his eyes back to Miss Stone’s face. Her cheeks were ablaze as her teeth sunk into her lower lip. “I don’t mind,” he heard her say. Jon’s hands curled into fists at his sides as Oberyn approached, lowering his head torturously slowly while his eyes stayed locked with Alayne’s. His mouth closed around the tip of the berry as he took the first bite and made a low appreciative sound from the back of his throat. Jon’s sure that if he clenched his jaw any harder, his teeth may shatter.

Oberyn kept his head bowed, close to Miss Stone’s chest as he chewed - _slowly_. Jon watched as her breaths began to quicken, the curve of her creamy bosom rising and falling with each intake of air. The Earl _finally_ made to take the second and last bite, but as Jon watched, Oberyn’s tongue brushed against Miss Stone’s skin as he wrapped his lips around the fruit, making her gasp softly before he pulled away, picking the stalk from his teeth. “Delicious,” was all he said whilst his jaw still worked the sweet treat before leaving Alayne Stone with a wink and returning to his original position in their standing circle. There was a small pinkish stain still evident on the crest of Miss Stone’s cleavage and Jon swears he can taste strawberries on his tongue.

He’d also decided that he hated the Earl, just a little bit.

Alayne cleared her throat as she tried to even out her breath, clearly affected by the game Miss Tyrell had concocted.

“Delightful!” Margaery cooed, downing the last of a bubbly drink that Jon had not realised she had in her possession a few moments ago. This is all fine entertainment for you, isn’t it? he thought as a footman replaced her empty glass with a full one. “Next!” the Golden Rose called, sauntering over to the serving trolley and picking up another item, “who does _this_ belong to?”

Jon heard an inhalation of air next to him at the same time as seeing Margaery Tyrell lift a dark grey handkerchief that used to belong to him. He turned to see Miss Stone looking at him with a mock pout on her lips. “It’s mine,” she said.

“Oh?” Margaery answered, “well I don’t believe that for a second, but if you’re willing to be one of my sacrificial lambs, then I won’t stop you, dearest Alayne.” Miss Tyrell’s smile widened. “Bring me the blindfold,” she called out as Miss Stone stepped forward. A slip of black silk not unlike the fabric of her robe was handed to her and she proceeded to raise it to cover Alayne’s eyes and tie it at the back of her head. “Now,” she started, “I’m going to rob you of your sight, and spin you around until you are thoroughly dizzy and unaware… then, you must reach out and the first gentleman you touch, you must gift with a kiss.”

“Margaery!”

“Just a quick peck on the lips now,” Miss Tyrell explained. “Honestly, Alayne, what kind of heathen do you take me for?”

“The kind that enjoys a show,” Miss Stone was fast to quip, making a few gentlemen in the circle chortle.

Having secured the black silk, Margaery began to spin Alayne where she stood in the middle of their circle. Around and around she went until she could not help but giggle. Margaery gave her one last spin before backing away and allowing Miss Stone to stop of her own accord, arms reaching out to help keep her balance. She swayed a little and Jon almost made a move to help keep her steady. “Alright,” she said to herself before sucking in a breath and stretching her arms out. She took a step forward facing both Jon and Theon Greyjoy stood beside him. Holding his breath, Jon focussed on her long slender fingers reaching into the space between them. The Earl of Pyke raised his own arm so that it would brush against her fingertips before he reached across to manoeuvre her into place directly in front of himself.

If looks could kill, Jon is sure that the glare he gave Greyjoy would have had the man deceased and his body already halfway back to bloody Pyke. It was no use though, Theon did not notice, he only continued to guide Miss Stone closer as her hands slid up his jacket sleeves to his shoulders. They both leant forward, their puckered lips pressing together briefly; just enough to make Alayne giggle and blush as she removed the blindfold to see who the recipient of her kiss had been.

Jon decided that he hated Lord Greyjoy too, Just a little bit.

The final object that Miss Tyrell decided to pull from the collection was the gold money clip. Which turned out to belong to Amory Lorch. Jon grimaced internally. Of all the men he hates in this room, he’s decided upon a particularly sour distaste for this one.

Amory looked positively pleased as punch, and considering the nature of the previous rounds, Jon suspects he has certain ideas about what he should expect. “Mr Lorch,” Miss Tyrell started, her voice ringing out strong, clear and commanding, “for your forfeit, I should like you to tell us about your best sexual experience.”

The man flustered a bit and Jon sent up thanks to whichever deity was watching over him that he himself had not been asked this question.

“Well,” he started, looking like he was searching his memory for the juiciest tale to tell. His face was full of sudden realisation and a smile birthed upon his lips as he clearly remembered something with particular lusty fondness. “There was one time, at a whorehouse-“ Jon felt Miss Stone shift on her feet where she stood beside him, “-I decided to have two at once, and bugger if I didn’t enjoy that something rotten!” He guffawed to himself rather grotesquely, his face turning clammy and crimson red.

“What were they like, these girls?” Oberyn asked. Jon wished he hadn’t – he did not particularly want to hear more of the tale.

“They were whores,” Amory offered with a shrug as if that was all that mattered.

Oberyn’s frowned. “You don’t remember if they were lively? Amusing? Slim? Curvaceous? What colour their hair was?”

“What does it matter what colour hair they have when you have two hot mouths on you and two wet tongues sliding up and down your pipe?” Mr Lorch laughed. He seemed to be the only one to find his statement amusing.

The Earl of Sunspear hummed disapprovingly. “What lucky, lucky whores they were to have had you as their customer,” he commented dismissively.

“They were paid!” Mr Lorch retorts, catching on to the slight, his brow creasing with the rumblings of anger.

“I think we’ve had enough of this type of game for now,” Miss Tyrell interrupts before the situation could escalate. “Gentlemen, please,” she gestured towards the green felted cards table, “sit. How about some poker, hm?”

With there only being six chairs laid out, each golden card holder meandered over to take his place. Jon’s eyes flickered to where Miss Tyrell was whispering something to Miss Stone, the latter looking a trifle perturbed as she kept glancing his way. A manservant came around to dole out betting chips as The Earl of Pyke grabbed the cards from the middle of the table and shuffled the deck before dealing. The first round was mediocre, but Jon felt as though he’d gotten the measure of the other players as smirks would appear or slide from their faces upon reading their cards. Oberyn was the trickiest to gauge, his confidence was bone-deep making it hard to tell if his face was a mask or not. The others were like newspaper headlines.

Just as Jon was deciding that Justin Massey must have the worst hand, he noticed Miss Tyrell nudging Miss Stone forward towards the table. The players smiled to her but kept their cards face down on the table, lest she see their hands. “Gentlemen,” she nodded in acknowledgment as she came up behind Jon.

“Alayne was getting curious about the game,” Miss Tyrell announced.

Theon Greyjoy grinned and blew a puff from his cigar. “Do you play, Miss Stone?”

“No,” she smiled, “I don’t… I was… hoping that one of you might be able to teach me? Mr Targaryen?” Her hand was on his shoulder and his heart leapt to his throat.

“Of course!” he spluttered, pushing his chair back to allow her to sit, only to find that Miss Stone apparently had other ideas as she sat across his lap. Jon’s lungs and heart ceased working that very instant and he’s not quite sure what to do with his hands, or where his eyes should linger – what with her bosom being almost at level with his sights. His pulse seemed to want to do some form of extremely energetic dance in his veins too. There is still a small pink strawberry stain on her chest. _Oh Gods!_ Jon thinks as he licks his lips involuntarily.

“Is this alright?” she near enough whispered, her body leant into his as her arm draped around his shoulders. Jon nodded and cleared his throat. _Oh Gods! She smells so sweet!_ The weight and warmth of her against him felt just right.

“Well,” Oberyn Martell started, “now that Miss Stone has found a… comfortable seat,” he paused to smirk at them both, out of the corner of Jon’s eye he could see a blush begin to bloom on Alayne’s cheeks. “Would you like the rules explained or are you happy to watch for a time first?”

Before Miss Stone gets a chance to respond, Miss Tyrell then seats herself upon Oberyn’s lap with a giggle and grins at her guests. “My darling Alayne is a fast learner, I’m sure she’ll pick it up,” she winked over the table at Miss Stone.

“Alright, five card draw,” Greyjoy announced, counting out the cards, “aces are high and jokers are wild… I hope you’re paying attention, Miss Stone,” he grinned.

“I am,” she shifted in Jon’s lap torturously. “Anyway, Mr Targaryen will help me figure it out, won’t you Jon?”

Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip and Jon tried hard not to focus on the gesture… or the brightness of her blue eyes… or her shifting against him… or her delectable scent… if he’s not too carful he’s likely to harden in his trousers right here at the poker table. He cleared his throat and lifted his cards halfway off the table to peek at his hand. A pair of queens, a pair of twos and a spare five. Not terrible.

“Is that good?” Miss Stone whispered in his ear, pushing herself even closer.

Jon turned his head to shield his murmurings from the other players. The fact that it meant his nose was almost buried in her hair and his lips just below her lobe was neither here nor there… he told himself. “It’s not bad,” she shivered against him. Jon decided he liked that – _very much_. “We’ll get to swap out that spare card to see if we can make a full house. The trick is trying not give away that we have a decent hand and also figuring out where the other players are at.” Jon pulled away and watched as Miss Stone wet her lips and nodded.

Jon placed his bet and was doled another card to swap with the spare five. He lifted the card so that he and Alayne may see it. _Another queen – the queen of hearts. Full house._ “Oh,” Miss Stone said, sounding mightily disappointed. Jon furrowed his brow up at her, this beautiful creature in his lap. That was the practically the best card they could have been dealt.

She flashed him a quick wink that was meant just for him.

_The minx! She’s toying with them._

A few of the other players chuckled, assuming Miss Stone had given the game away and upped their bets as they went around the table.

Jon and Miss Stone won the mountain of betting chips that round, much to everyone’s chagrin. Jon insisted that she keep the money.

After three more rounds, Alayne finally alighted his lap. He missed her instantly and watched as she went over to the drinks trolley with Miss Tyrell, heads bowed, discussing something that looked rather important. And then she left the room.

“Gentlemen!” the Golden Rose clapped her hands, getting their attention. “Shall we get to business?”

“The girl does not want to discuss her own contracts?” Oberyn asked with a smile and a nod of his head towards the door Miss Stone had left through.

“Alayne wishes to only enter one contract at a time, Lord Martell, and wishes for me to find out the details of your offers. The poor dear is terribly embarrassed about it, and as you know, _I_ do not embarrass so easily.”

Oberyn, grinned and reached out to twirl his fingers around the silk tie of Miss Tyrell’s robe. “No, you do not.”

She giggled and playfully swotted him away. “We’re discussing Miss Stone, not me. Now, who wants to show their hand first?”

Jon was aghast that everything should be discussed so openly. He knew that some kind of discussion for these things must take place somehow, so that all parties were pleased with the arrangement, but that didn’t stop him from feeling discomfort from it. He glanced at the door Miss Stone had used to retreat from the room. Is this what it’s like all the time? She’ll sell her company to the highest bidder?

“Well, I-“ Amory started, only to be cut off by Miss Tyrell.

“Not you.”

“I-I beg your pardon?!” he flustered, much to Jon’s amusement.

“Miss Stone kindly declines any offers from you, Mr Lorch.” Everyone watched as the man rapidly turned an impressive shade of red. He looked as though he might explode but Margaery was quicker – with merely a flick if her eyes, she’d bid two of her footmen to approach Mr Lorch and offer to escort him to his carriage. He stormed off and Jon breathed a sigh of relief. He’s not sure he would like the idea of Miss Stone entering any kind of contract with that hot-headed idiot.

Come to think of it, he’s not sure he liked the thought of her entering into a contract with any of these gentlemen.

“I can offer a residence of amble surrounds just outside of Pyke,” Theon Greyjoy said, “she’ll be quite comfortable. And if we part ways, she’ll have a yearly income of fifty pounds until my death.”

Jon wanted the man’s death right now.

“Very generous,” Margaery Tyrell nodded. “Any others?”

“Excuse me,” Jon had had enough of holding his tongue, “but are we really sitting around bidding on Miss Stone like she’s some sort of horse at market?!”

Miss Tyrell’s lips twitched in amusement before she took Amory Lorch’s now vacant chair, leaning forward to rest her chin on her palm as if she were terribly entertained by his outburst. “Oh, but she _is_ a rather fine horse, Mr Targaryen, wouldn’t you say? A thoroughbred. Very pleasant for… _riding.”_

Jon flushed. “But… this is-“ he struggled to find the right words, “this is-“

“This is one of the very few ways in which a woman can earn a living, Mr Targaryen,” Miss Tyrell snapped, “on her back, on her knees, on your arm at a soiree, picnicking with you at the park or bent over your writing desk!” She looked at him coolly. “Miss Stone has asked for my help in securing a benefactor, which may be one of you, or none of you – it is _her choice!_ And she’ll have her choice until the poor thing marries and then it’s taken away and becomes her _husband’s_ choice.” She paused to compose herself, smoothing down some of her hair. “You may pity women like Miss Stone, Mr Targaryen, but let me assure you, she has more freedom in this career than within the bindings of marriage.”

There was a silence that followed. Jon gulped.

“I can offer a townhouse here in King’s Landing and match Lord Greyjoy’s fifty pounds until my death,” Oberyn said, cutting through the quiet around the table. Miss Tyrell nodded in acknowledgment. Fossoway and Massey both made offers after that, but Jon wasn’t paying attention, too busy thinking of these men keeping Miss Stone like some sort of amusement to be played with when the fancy took them.

 _I could make an offer,_ he thought. The Targeryens have multiple properties within the capital, and what used to be their grandmother’s townhouse before her death, was now considered his. _She could live there, and I’ll stay at the Steel Street property. I wouldn’t pester her… I wouldn’t even touch her if she didn’t want it. We can just be… acquaintances._

The income at the end of the contract was a trickier matter. Fifty pounds was very generous, and though Jon did have the means to fulfil that promise, it would not take long for that kind of transaction to go unnoticed by his father. What would he think of it all? How would he react if he knew Jon had employed this sort of ‘company’? Jon’s not actually sure of how those questions would be answered.

Images flashed through his mind. Images he found curiously infuriating; such as Oberyn licking sticky fruit nectar from Miss Stone’s naked breast, taking her nipple between his lips, or Greyjoy’s greedy hands sinking his fingers into the round of her behind. He shook his head to dispel the thoughts, but that did not seem to help as now he thought only of _his_ mouth at her teat, and _his_ hands palming her soft lush flesh.

_Stop it!_

He sucked in a breath, not really knowing what jumble of words might fall from his mouth, but then he caught sight of Greyjoy’s infuriating grin and he’d remembered how Alayne had felt perched in his lap and something snapped. An incredibly uncomfortable feeling bubbled up from the pit of his gut at the thoughts of allowing another man’s hands on her soft creamy skin without actually doing anything to try and prevent it.

_I may never lay my own hands on her. But I can prevent another from doing so. That will be enough._

“I can offer a King’s Landing residence, and fifty pounds to match the other yearly incomes,” he heard himself proclaim. Margaery Tyrell smirked at him with a twinkle in her eye.

“Sixty pounds,” the Earl of Pyke countered, raising his offer. Everyone looked to him, he greeted their curiosity with a smile and shrug. “I’d like to see that red hair all messed _after the event_ ,” he explained.

“Seventy-five pounds,” Jon growled. Greyjoy simply shook his head.

“I’ll pass on your offers, gentlemen,” Miss Tyrell declared, looking positively giddy, “Miss Stone will be in touch. Please, stay, enjoy more drink, more gambling.” And with that, she rose from her chair and sashayed from the room.

All present at the table watched until the door clicked shut and they were left without their hostess. Oberyn turned to grin at Jon. “Well, Mr Targaryen… I hope you enjoy _riding that horse_ ,” he raised his drink in salute to him.

_Christ! What have I gotten myself into?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! So Jonny boy has most likely walked away from the evening with his very own courtesan (I know, BIG SHOCKER lol)
> 
> The next chapter will be from Robb's POV so we can see what he's been up to and is the last of the chapters that I have completed and ready to go - so updates after that will be a bit slower. I would really like to get this one finished instead of adding to my pile of WIPs, so hopefully i can keep up the momentum - your comments really help, so if you've enjoyed this story at all so far, please do let me know!!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb PoV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may be wondering why Robb had left it so long to take to action over Sansa - simple: I WANTED HIM TO lol! What with the pressures of being thrust into his lordship prematurely, knowing that he leant heavily on Sansa for support, he suspected that she had found some escape with Harry and didn't want to be selfish and drag her back to him. His thoughts ping pong all over the place about the other implications of a rushed marriage but ultimately he acts because of a lack of correspondence from his sister.
> 
> So, yeah, this is basically me preempting the slew of 'why TF did Robb leave it so long to do anything?!' type comments ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> While we're on the subject of comments... I would just like to point out that I write this fic for fun and not historical accuracy. Condescending comments about things I may or may not have gotten incorrect will be ignored.

Rubbing at his forehead, Robb sighed to himself as the carriage rolled along towards his destination. He should not have waited for so long to take action. He’d been reluctant to allow Sansa to visit their aunt in The Vale in the first place, feeling a selfish attachment to keep her close since mother and father died. She was all he had… her and their overwhelming estate. But perhaps some time away from the place would be beneficial for his sister. And then he’d received her letter. _Blast it!_ The girl had gone and got herself married?! He had no knowledge of this Hardyng fellow, but he’d obviously swept Sansa clean off her feet for her to not even wait to introduce him before the wedding. Robb tried hard not to think what that probably meant. Is she with child? Did they need to marry in such haste to lessen the rumours of an _incident_ before marriage? He tucked those thoughts away, not willing to consider his sister engaging in such acts. _She is simply madly in love. Sansa can let her emotions run away with her sometimes._

Or was it that he’d leant too heavily on her for her support now with mother and father gone? More guilt swirled his stomach. Did she simply not want to return to Winterfell? Is that why everything was done in such haste and so unorthodoxly? He wished he had his sweet sister back, if only to find some answers to the questions burning under his skin.

But now she is gone. _‘The Myrish coast’_ she had said, and he hasn’t heard from her since – in eighteen months! He’d spent the last year almost pulling his hair out with worry. _Why isn’t she writing to him to let him know all’s well?  How long does it take to tour the bloody Myrish coast anyway?! She’s always wanted to visit there, ever since she were a little girl._

Robb had hired a gentleman to investigate in Myr and felt as though it had already taken far too long to receive any information at all. He felt useless, so eventually took to the rail to his aunt’s residence in The Vale after seeing to his duties and establishing some help at the estate. He’d wanted answers. But he’d found none.

Aunt Lysa seemed rather fond of this Hardyng chap, but that did not quell any worry inside him, for he suspected she was not the best judge of character (if her favoured companion, Mr Baelish is anything to go by). She evaded his questions, and Robb believed that only half-truths were falling from her lips when he pressed her for further information. But still, she sang the same song from Sansa’s letter. Married, enjoying her freedom abroad.

Perhaps she _is_ happy? Perhaps he should let her be?

After far too much time spent wasted with his aunt, Robb received word from his man across the sea. No reference to a Mr and Mrs Hardyng, or a Miss Stark ever travelling through Myrish border control, and no record of those names at any of the respectable hotels either. His man deduced that his sister had not stepped foot on Myrish soil in these past eighteen months and Robb’s stomach churned as he realised he agreed with him. He bid his investigator to come back to Westerosi soil and see what he could find here.

“You might try King’s Landing,” Mr Baelish had suggested one time when he was taking tea with aunt Lysa.

“And what would I find there?”

The man had simply shrugged and smirked his weasel smile at him. “All the troubled souls end up at the capital one way or another Lord Stark.”

That had rankled him. His sister _was not_ a ‘troubled soul’…. he hoped.

Traditionally, the Starks do not tend to spend that much time in the capital, so their residence there was scarcely used. The beds were uncomfortable, and he was not used to the hustle and bustle of a city outside his windows. Not only that, but the news he’d heard from his man was that Hardyng had been in the capital but had moved on. No word on Sansa. Everything was giving him an almighty headache.

“Lord Stark,” his man greeted him as they met at their pre-arranged location.

The man was tall and although well dressed, one could tell he was not of higher society. Robb removed his gloves to shake his hand. “Mr Blackwater,” thank you for meeting me.

“If you don’t mind mi’lord, just Bronn will do.”

Robb nodded in understanding and then looked up to the building they had arrived at. It was a women’s haberdasher and clothes-maker in a rather respectable part of town.

“The boarding house he stayed at said this lot have been hounding them to pick up his bill,” Bronn explained, pointing to the shop front with his thumb over his shoulder, “seems _Harrold_ is none too happy at settlin’ money he owes. Ordered some goods and then scarpered.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Robb stated simply before he moved towards the premises.

The door opened with a tinkling of a bell overhead and two gentlemen customers turned to see them enter. One had the most striking silver hair the likes of which Robb had never seen, and the other a head of raven curls. The silver-haired fellow smiled affably as Robb and Bronn entered, the dark-haired chap simply nodded. They seemed to be waiting to be served, so Robb and Bronn took their place behind them until they could question the shop owner.

The shop was of average size, highly polished dark wooden floors that matched the countertop the shop-keep and seamstresses would stay behind. There was a shiny brass bell sat on top and Robb wondered if anyone had rung it yet. Behind the counter were two dress-making mannequins in curvaceous lady’s forms and many bolts of fabric. Beyond that was an open door, Robb could not see much through that way but he's sure it led through to their work area.

On this side of the counter was a large wooden storage unit pushed against one wall, much like an apothecary cabinet, although Robb suspects it must be full of ribbons, buttons and lace trimmings rather than various lotions and potions.  

The gentlemen in front were murmuring something, heads slightly bowed together. Robb averted his attention to the bolts of fabric displayed on specially made wooden shelving. The silver-haired man suddenly burst into a tremendous boom of laughter.

“What do you mean you’re not going to touch her?!”

“Egg!” the other man hissed, “this is not the place!”

“Oh little brother! What are you paying her for? What's in the contract?”

This really didn’t sound like the sort of conversation that Robb should be overhearing. He looked to Bronn who only seemed to raise his eyebrows in amusement.

“I don’t know, Aegon” the dark-haired man said pointedly in a hushed tone that Robb was sure was not meant for his ears, “can’t I want company? Companionship? Someone who’ll take me seriously instead of this incessant teasing that you delight in?” The other man looked to his brother like he was trying to figure out a puzzle. “I wouldn’t _use_ her... I like her."

“You and all the other men at that soiree, but they’re not housing her and feeding her, clothing her and bringing her gifts... what's the use in all that if you're not going to f-“

"Shh!" the curly haired gentleman hissed before lowering his own voice. "You're about as subtle as a battering-ram, did you know that? Please be quiet!... the contract states how many _'visits'_ per week she is to expect from me, and that is all they'll be - _visits._  I can't with good conscience use her like a -"

“Mr Targaryen!” the shop-keeper appeared, cutting off the man’s flow, “how can I be of assistance today?”

 _Targaryen? Of Dragonstone?_ Robb knew the name – a well established family of old money. He felt that perhaps he should politely forget the conversation he had overheard and not jump to conclusions. Besides, what a man does in his private business is precisely that – _private._

The dark-haired Targaryen brother took a step forward to speak to the shop-keeper. “I should like to open an account for a… _lady friend_ of mine… and to order something in way of a gift.”

“Very well sir,” the shop-keeper pulled out a large ledger, opening it up and dipping his quill in an inkwell. He hovered over a blank page and looked up to the Targaryen. “The account is to be in your name?” The man nodded. “And the lady’s name is?”

“Stone,” he answered, “Miss Alayne Stone.”

“And are we setting a budget to this account?”

“No, she can have whatever she-“

“What my brother means-“ the silver-haired Targaryen interrupted, “is that he’ll monitor her spend and notify you.” He turned to his brother. “There’s no point in showering her in fine dresses if you never get to see what’s under them, Jon.”

This ‘Jon’ fellow flushed a rather bold shade of crimson and glared at his older brother. Robb felt embarrassed on his behalf. No man’s business should be discussed so in front of strangers.

“And the gift?” the shop-keeper said after finishing scratching in his account book.

“Uh… a… shawl perhaps? In fine fabric?”

“Very good,” the shop-keeper commented. The older Targaryen scoffed. “We have a selection of Myrish silks which are all the rage with the ladies at the moment.”

Robb’s stomach swooped at the mention of Myr. He closed his eyes and let out a breath through his nose. _Sansa, where are you, darling sister?_

A few swatches of fabric were brought out from under the counter and presented to the younger Targaryen. His brother huffed and began wandering around the small store front as if this were the most boring thing in the world as his sibling looked to be debating over a huge decision. Robb watched him pick up a navy and a pale lemon yellow swatch of Myrish silk. He looked mightily undecided between the two.

After a few more moments of the poor chap looking a little cluelessly at the fabric in his hands, Robb felt the need to offer some help. “My sister will always tell you that yellow is such a cheerful colour and not used nearly enough,” he said, nodding his head to the swatch in the man’s right hand. He turned and raised his brows, “Robb, Robb Stark,” he introduced himself.

“Oh, uh,” Jon Targaryen flustered a little, no doubt knowing that Robb had been privy to his conversations with his brother. He fiddled with the swatches, moving them both to one hand so that he could shake Robb’s in greeting, giving his name and a small smile. “you think the yellow then?” His attention was back on the fabric.

“If your… _lady friend_ is fond of colour, yes,” he tried of offer helpfully.

Robb watched Jon Targaryen press his lips together as he still considered both fabrics like the wrong choice could ruin his life. Perhaps it could?

“I’ll have the yellow,” he finally said to the shop-keep, “can you trim it in something fine too?... And perhaps some pretty embroidery in the corners, nothing too garish. Delicate… and elegant.”

Robb tried to hide the smile that was threatening. This Jon fellow was sweet on his _‘lady friend’_ , he was in no doubt.

After setting straight the details of his gift order of what sounded to Robb like a very handsome present for the woman, the Targaryens made to leave the premises. Jon stopped to thank Robb for his help before his brother near enough nudged him out of the door.

“Come on, I’m starved,” the silver-haired man grumbled.

“I can’t stop to eat yet, I’ve an appointment at the jewellers and-“

“Christ, Jon! How much are you spending on the girl and you’re not even going to indulge in a little-”

The door closed with a rattle and the tinkle of the bell, cutting off their voices as Robb watched the Targaryens walk away, still locked in a battle of bickering.

“How may I help you gentlemen?” the shop-keep asked. It was finally Robb’s turn to try and get some answers.

After a few moments of back and forth, the store owner agreed to tell them everything he knew about Harrold Hardyng’s order – as long as Robb settled the payment. He did so.

“And that’s all you know?” Robb asked after gathering all the information. Harry seemed to have commissioned their milliner to create an elegant hat in cream and trimmed in black with matching gloves. He had also asked for a handwritten note to be included in the hatbox –

 

_Dearest T.T._

_My mind refuses to stop thinking of you day and night. Please accept these gifts as tokens of my affection._

_Yours Most Sincerely,_

_H.H._

 

The order was collected by a manservant with promises of imminent payment that the shop-keep never received.

“Who the devil do you suppose this T.T. is?” Robb asked Bronn as they stepped outside.

“His mistress perhaps?” the man offered.

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Or perhaps your sister and he aren’t married after all?”

_That means she’s lying to me… and that means she has some terrible cause to lie to me._

“I don’t like the sound of that either.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaack! I took a few days off from writing to recharge my batteries :)

Sansa is a wicked girl. A wicked, wicked girl. Funny then, that the mere thought of her wickedness only spurred her on as her fingers worked her nub faster and faster. Her free hand gripped at the cotton bedsheets as she imagined grasping at a fistful of inky black locks in its stead. She let out a gasp and turned her head into the pillow, her teeth taking hold of the pillowcase as she started breathing heavily through her nose. She was a wicked, wicked girl indeed.

Sansa rarely did this. It was a sin. Which, in itself is a laughable thought, considering her ‘career’. But still, _she rarely did this_.

Sometimes, when Waymar would visit her -back when she was ‘his’- they’d engage in one act or another and Sansa was finding it difficult to deny her arousal. Ladies do not enjoy such things. Or so she had thought. But still, Waymar would hardly ever quite make the experience ‘complete’ for her and after he’d leave, she’s ashamed to admit that her flesh was so sensitive, her body so desperate for sweet, sweet friction that she’d rub at that devilish little knot of pleasure at the top of her womanhood until spasms of bliss radiated throughout her body.

She was chasing one of those wonderful spasms right now. She bit her lip and glanced over at the large dresser. She knows what’s in there but getting it would mean moving, and moving would mean momentarily stopping the way her hand was making her feel.

Waymar had been kind to her. He was by no means perverse in his sexual appetites, but he had not been at all bland either. One day, he had brought her a gift; A fine piece of highly polished ivory placed in a wooden box lined with padded red velvet. The object was carved to rather obscenely resemble a gentleman’s member. She had blanched at the object at first, and Waymar had not pressed her further. But, one evening, after he had left, Sansa gingerly lifted the ivory phallus from its bed of a presentation box and stared at it for a good long while. She felt its weight, she ran her fingers over the ridges that denoted the head and all the way down its smooth length. Momentarily, she was ashamed of her fascination, but she successfully swallowed that down. She was a women who knew they ways of men now. She knew their appetites and she was beginning to understand that she had some of her own. She used Waymar’s gift the first time that night and a few nights after too. She neglected to tell him and decided to keep the gift for herself alone.

Sansa thought of Jon. Would he want to use an object such as this on her? Or would he want her to make a performance of its use while he merely watched. Her hand worked more furiously between her thighs and her back arched off the bed at the thought of his grey eyes devouring her. She imagined he was sat at the chair she takes tea in, situated facing her bed, watching her as she pleasured herself, this wicked, wicked girl she’s become. Would he like that? Would _she?_

Did she want to be his wicked girl?

She imagined him wrapping those sinful lips of his around the words, the husk of his voice dipping low as he kept his eyes on her. Quite suddenly Sansa’s breath hitched before a groan escaped her throat. Waves of molten pleasure throbbed outwards from her womanhood. She shuddered, sinking back into her mattress, trying to catch her breath. Tonight was her last night at Margaery’s King’s Landing abode, tomorrow she would be moving to a new home – the residence that Jon Targaryen would be providing for her.

Sansa remembered the giddiness she had felt when Margaery came out from the Thorn Suite, grinning from ear to ear like the _‘cat-that-got-the-cream’_. _“He couldn’t help himself darling_!” she had laughed, clasping her hands with both of hers. _“Your Mr Targaryen has made a most generous bid for your contract.”_

 _“He has?”_ She had scarcely believed it. Sansa thought that perhaps he was attracted to her but he was not at all saucy or salacious in their interactions  – not like the other gentlemen. Her coming to seat herself most scandalously in his lap had been her last desperate attempt to entice him into making an offer. Luckily Margaery had agreed to handle all of that. The thought of being present while menfolk made bids for her like she were horseflesh or cattle made her quite hot with embarrassment. Or worse still, what if none made any offers at all? She’s quite sure she would perish on the spot from mortification.

Never-the-less, Margaery assured her that all gentlemen presented with offers, and that her preferred beau had been most fierce in his insistence not to be outbid. Sansa thinks herself silly, but she could not quite squash that pleasant fluttering in her tummy from the thought of being wanted so very much. Especially by Jon Targaryen.

_It’s just for your body though, foolish girl. Remember that._

Five days later (Margaery had insisted that she make him wait) they sent word to her new chosen benefactor, asking to arrange discussions of the contract with solicitors.

And now, not three weeks since first laying eyes on Mr Jon Targaryen, Sansa is one night away from being in his employment. She bit down hard on her lip to suppress a grin and pulled her blanket up to her nose.

_This should not excite me so._

 Yes, she was a wicked girl indeed.

*****

Her carriage bumped along the cobbled road as they neared Sisters Street where ‘Alayne Stone’s’ new home stood. From the description in the documents supplied by Jon Targaryen’s solicitor, Sansa knew that she would be residing in a four bedroom, recently refurbished terraced town house. Quite what she would be doing with all _four_ bedrooms, she was not so sure. With the house, she would have use of a cook and a maid, but neither of them are to reside overnight. Sansa suspects _that_ is when Mr Targaryen plans to visit; when no one else will overhear them. She wills her cheeks not to colour at the thought Jon making her headboard rattle and the bedframe groan from his efforts, but is sure it is of no use when her face feels as though it is now aflame.

The houses along this road are tall and white, black wrought iron railings set them apart from the stone street and flank the stone steps up to their black painted doors with shiny brass knockers. Each of them look the same. Each of them look conventionally perfectly respectable. Each of them look as though they house upstanding members of polite society. What would people think of their Targaryen neighbour moving his ‘kept woman’ into one of these houses for decent and proper people?

The carriage began to slow and rolled to a stop outside number 13. Sansa whipped up her gloves from beside her on the seat as the door was opened. Without thinking, she blindly took the hand that was offered. Assuming she were to thank the footman as she took her first step down, Sansa was taken aback by a pair of familiar grey eyes blinking up at her. “Oh!” She felt herself smile, unable to contain it, “Mr Targaryen. I had not known you would be here.”

He frowned. “Should I not be? I can leave if it’s more suitable?”

“ _No_ ,” she only just managed not to yelp in a most un-lady-like manner, her teeth sunk into her bottom lip in an attempt to stop the giggle threatening to escape. “No… it is good to see you. I only meant that I did not expect you to welcome me.” Waymar hadn’t.

He was still holding her hand and looked as though he wanted to say something, but the correct words were eluding him. Sansa squeezed his fingers a fraction and his focus fell to where he still held her in his grasp. He promptly let go and she regretted bringing it to his attention.

“You look radiant,” he blurted, the tips of his ears rapidly resembling the shade of a pomegranate.

Sansa looked down at herself. She wore what had been a rather modest navy day dress that Waymar had paid for – that is, it _was_ modest until Margaery had instructed her personal seamstress to attack it. The neckline now dipped dangerously low in Sansa’s opinion and the skirts were altered so that a bustle must be worn instead of a full crinoline hoop. But she suspected the overall effect was pleasing to the male eye – and if the way Jon’s kept flitting over her were any indication, she would say she is correct in her suspicions. “Thank you, Jon,” she smiled.

“I’ve set up an account for you at Mordane Tailors and Dressmakers,” he said in a rush, “you can order whatever you may need… they specialise in haberdashery too, so there’s some nice laces and ribbons and…” he trailed off, his eyes dropping down her body only to dart back up to her eyes. He quickly wet his lips. “…not that you are lacking or anything!… that’s not what I meant!... you always look… _uh_ …”

 _“Radiant?”_ she asked, arching her brow and still somehow managing to suppress the giggle at the back of her throat.

“Yes,” he smiled, “if it is not too bold of me to say so?” he asked, reaching up to remove his top hat.

“It isn’t.” Sansa started feeling giddy again. She really must get a hold of her sensibilities before she starts to see things that are not truly there. She smiled at him none-the-less.

“I just wanted to be sure that you wouldn’t be in want of anything, and that you are…well, _happy_ here,” he said before gesturing with his hat towards the black painted door with the shiny brass knocker. “Shall we?”

“We shall,” she answered, the grin still plastered on her face. Jon looked momentarily conflicted, his elbow cocked ever so slightly towards her. She hooked her hand under his arm before he could retract the gesture. Strictly speaking, they were not in _‘the latter stages of courtship’,_ so offering his arm was not ‘proper etiquette’ for an unmarried couple, but Sansa supposed their situation was near enough… considering.

“I’ve had the all downstairs rooms redecorated and some of the ones upstairs too,” Jon explained as he opened the door for her, the walls of the entrance hall featured a beautiful and yet busy William Morris wallpaper. It must have cost him dearly, the designer was all the rage. Sansa resisted the urge for her lips to twitch. She liked the pattern, but the colours were dark and felt a little oppressive. She hoped he had not used the very same paper throughout.

Jon glanced back at her as he led the way. She forced an overly cheery smile. “It’s lovely.”

“Oh good,” he sighed in relief, “I am no great scholar of design and I’ve been told my taste in all things lends itself to the more boring options.”

They stepped into the front drawing room. The walls were much lighter here and Sansa felt her smile become easy and genuine. The pattern was of delicate interwoven vines and unfurling leaves on a background of the lightest cream. Dotted here and there were different fruits and blooms in muted shades. _Yes,_ Sansa thought, _this will do nicely._ The floor was dark hardwood that looked as though it had been recently waxed and polished. In the main seating area, the floor was taken up by a huge light green Persian rug and atop sat a love-seat and a parlour chair in matching burgundy damask. A low round mahogany parlour table was situated in the centre, and to one side was a stunning rich wooden mantelpiece with inlaid decorative ceramic tiles.

Jon fidgeted a little nervously by her side, letting her take it all in. “I can have things changed, if they are not to your liking, I mean.”

“No,” she said softly, feeling bold and placing a hand on his arm. He glanced down at the touch, wetting his lips before meeting her eye again. “it’s perfect.” The look of relief on his face made her heart beat a little faster. Waymar had never taken such things into consideration.

Jon had left her to her own devices when exploring the upstairs rooms, making sure that they too, were to her satisfaction. Her belongings had been taken from her this morning at Margaery’s house by Jon’s men and most of them seem to have been deposited in the largest bedroom at the front of the property.

When she returned downstairs, Jon introduced Sansa to her new cook and maid, Nora, a middle-aged woman with wide hips and a ruddy round face, and her slip of a daughter, Ivy, with big hazel doe-like eyes and mousy brown hair under her pristine white cap. They bobbed a curtsy in greeting and scurried off to see to their duties. Jon watched them go before turning to her. “I have been assured that they are… _discreet_. That they… understand the arrangement and do not suffer from loose tongues.” His ears were aflame again but he managed to keep his gaze fixed upon her this time.

“Of course,” she smiled.

He stood there awkwardly then, searching the room for inspiration and shifting his feet against the rug every now and again. Sansa wonders if he’s half expecting a dance in the bedsheets today, which would be terribly forward of him considering her belongings were still in their trunks and she was scarcely used to the place. The suggestion of perhaps a walk in the nearby park or to sit and take some tea is right on the very tip of her tongue when he quickly taps at the side of his leg with a fist and words come tumbling from his mouth. “It has been a pleasure, as always. Please do let me know if there is anything amiss with the house or the staff.” He bowed and looked as though he wanted to take her hand to issue a kiss to her knuckles but had thought better of it. “I shall see you on Thursday. Good day, Miss Stone.” And with that, his hat was placed atop his head and he was gone from the room and gone from the house. Sansa stood there, staring at the door before shaking her head and brushing down her skirts. She looked around her new drawing room and took a deep breath.

***

Sansa huffed as she started unpicking the stitches she had been working on. The silk thread knotted as it rasped back out of the cotton fabric of the handkerchief she had been embroidering. She threw her hoop on the floor with a most un-lady-like growl.

“Begging your pardon Miss, but is something the matter?” Ivy asked, stood still in the doorway holding the silver tea tray and staring at Sansa’s discarded embroidery hoop on the rug.

“No, Ivy…I’m quite fine,” she lied, bending to retrieve her work. Ivy set the tea down on the table and made quick work of depositing the bone china cup, saucer, milk jug, sugar bowl and teapot in front of Sansa. Her maid bobbed up and down before leaving the room.

Sansa let out a sigh. Everything wasn’t fine. Or it was? She’s not quite sure.

She’s been set up in Jon Targaren’s Sisters Street residence now for nigh on six weeks! And he is yet to touch her! Granted, Waymar had allowed her a certain period of adjustment after moving into his property, and Sansa had had the feeling that should she have refused his advances, he would have waited a little while longer to start the carnal aspect of their contract, but in a little over three weeks, ‘Alayne Stone’ was well and truly his courtesan having lain with him twice that first night.

But Jon – well, Jon seems to be a different beast altogether! He visits her quite regularly, as per their contract of thrice per week – but he does not make any move to touch her, hold her, kiss her – _anything!_ It is quite vexing!

 _Or is it?_ Sansa wonders to herself. _Perhaps I should not be so concerned. I am being kept and paid am I not? Why does it bother me so that he has not made a move to pursue the activities of the bedroom?_

But bother her, it did.

Her gaze dropped to the pale lemon yellow shawl of fine Myrish silk Jon had gifted to her a few weeks back. She had it draped over the arm of the parlour chair she sat in, carefully arranged so that she could clearly admire the delicate embroidery of white thread depicting some flowers and foliage. There were tiny pearl beads added to embellish the centre of the blooms. She loved it! The colour was ever so cheerful and the fine silky fringing slipped through her fingers like water when she had want to touch and admire it – of which she did often.

She had ordered two dresses from Mordane’s so far; a pale blue with white accents such as a lace collar and cuffs, and a rich burgundy red in the most decadent satin fabric. Jon had seemed pleased to hear that she was making use of the account he had put in place. When he returned to her for the next visit, he came baring gifts of hat pins encrusted in jewels the very same colours of her new dresses.

If Sansa were to hazard an educated guess, then Jon’s gifts to her this past month have far outstretched the value that was agreed upon in their contract. Almost every visit he’d come baring a brooch, or a necklace, or some other such bauble. In truth it was starting to get ridiculous.

_He wants to dress me up in finery and glamour but does not want to see what’s beneath._

It is not that Sansa was failing to enjoying his company – far from it! Jon had taken her for a stroll or carriage ride around the park, to one of the fashionable Chocolate Houses for some indulgent drinking chocolate, to an exhibition of new and exciting artists (where he’d returned to purchase the little painting of the blue rose she’d admired so much), and sometimes he’d simply come to sit and take tea or luncheon with her. Sansa liked those visits. They would discuss some of the manuscripts he had received and recently he had started to bring them with him. Occasionally, they would sit in companionable silence, with nothing but the flames crackling in the fireplace as they both read various stories that had been submitted to his publishing company. Sansa liked those types of visits most of all. They were peaceful, and Jon would always ask for her opinion on the work she was reading. He did not seem to be seeking out her thoughts as a means to simply further the conversation, it appeared that he was genuinely interested to hear what she had to say. Sometimes her opinion on a piece differed from his and instead of dismissing her, Jon would turn inward and reflective, as if her point of view had not occurred to him before and he felt the need to think on it further.

Yes, Sansa was enjoying his company very much, but his extreme hesitancy to move their activities to that of a more carnal nature was starting to fray at her nerves.

Margaery had stopped by on a social call a few days past and of course thought the whole thing most hilarious. She did, however, leave Sansa with some pearls of wisdom; Jon Targaryen appeared to be a shy beast, and was in need of gentle coaxing. Sansa was going to have to attempt to turn her Alayne Stone persona into more of a seductress.

Her first attempt had been pure happenstance. She had been fatigued and retired to her bedroom early. Ivy had already helped her from her clothes and was busying herself downstairs before she and her mother would be leaving for the night. Sansa sat at her vanity table wearing nothing but her nightdress and a silk robe (a gift from Margaery). Her hair had been unpinned and she was rubbing some lotion into her hands when she heard someone at the door.

There was a low murmuring of a man’s voice as well as that of her maid. Not long after, Ivy rapt on her bedroom door and called out to inform her that Jon Targaryen had come to call.

“Would you like help to dress, Miss?” Ivy asked when Sansa had cracked open the door.

Sansa hesitated and then glanced down at her state of undress. “No… no, I’m quite fine, Ivy, thank you. Please show Mr Targaryen to the drawing room. I shall be down momentarily.” She hurried over to her mirror and assessed her appearance. After running a brush through her hair and pinching at her cheeks, Sansa loosely tied her robe so that her pretty nightdress from Lys could be seen peeking out a little. She left her feet and ankles bare and took a breath before going downstairs.

“Jon?” she asked as she stepped into the room. He had his back to her.

“Alayne, I have the most charming manuscript about a-“ he started, whirling around excitedly with the papers in his hand before he stopped dead at the sight of her. His mouth couldn’t seem to decide if it wanted to stay closed or hang open, his eyes drank in her unbound hair, lack of dress and naked feet and ankles. He looked… _hungry_ for her.

Desire pooled low in Sansa’s belly. She was a wicked girl for wanting him, but this was her career now, should she not find enjoyment in it too? Margaery had said that she had. She said that she had taken some of her lovers purely to serve her own appetites regardless of the riches they could offer her. Sansa’s sure she knows what her own mother would have said about a women like Margaery Tyrell. _Well, I am that kind of woman too now,_ she supposed and squashed all further thoughts of her mother, of her father, of her dearest brother Robb. _Now is not the time._

“Jon?” she repeated after he’d seemingly been stood there staring for quite some time, “are you well?”

“Yes, I-“ Jon stammered, “-I apologise, I had not noticed the hour was so late, I-“ he paused, his eyes raking over her with a certain kind of craving once more, “I should be going, I had not meant to bother you.” And with that, he swiftly donned his top hat, bid her a rushed good evening and almost bolted from the house.

Sansa groaned in frustration and rubbed at her temples. She trudged back upstairs and opened up her dresser to find a neat box with a certain piece of highly polished ivory inside.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Sansa....she thirstin' but Jonnyboy is adamant that he's not gonna be using her like that.... how long do you think that'll last? XD
> 
> Next chapter will be Jon's POV and we'll continue to see Sansa trying to get Jon to loosen up and GIVE IN AND FUCK HER ALREADY! lol  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter - please do leave a comment if you have!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get an introduction to Jon's half sister Rhaenys here (fyi - she is married to Beric Dondarrion)
> 
> 'Alayne' continues to try and tempt Jon...

Jon’s not sure if he’s ever endured something like this. Something sweet, and yet so torturous. He’s come to really enjoy his time with Alayne, but also finds a hatred for it too. He wants to spend time with her… if only his damned lecherous thoughts would leave him be!

 _She expects it,_ they whisper to him, _she’s agreed. She’s waiting for you to touch her, kiss her, hold her... fuck her._

_No, no, no! I will not!_

_She looks at you with a hunger in her eyes sometimes; a hunger to put her mouth on you, to allow you to play out your wicked thoughts._

_She is a Lady!_

_She is a courtesan. She is YOUR courtesan._

Jon shook his head. It does no good to dwell in his lewd daydreams or battle with the lusty thoughts in his mind – an activity he seems to be doing more often of late.

And _heavens!_ The last time he had stepped foot into the Sisters Street property, all giddy with excitement at a new manuscript that he was _sure_ would be to Alayne’s taste. And she stood there, dressed in silk nightclothes and her hair unbound. Her feet and ankles were bare and all he could think to do was wonder what else would be bare under that robe and nightdress. How easy it would’ve been to suggest he accompany her upstairs and help her peel away the scant layers of flimsy fabric and see the lengths of her creamy skin. His palms itched with the thought of stroking up and down the womanly curves of her hips and the dip of her waist, to hold her breasts in his hands and feel the soft weight of them, to suckle a nipple into his mouth or lave at the skin of her throat, to have her legs wrapped around him, urging him to-

Jon had been half hard by the time he’d realised she had called his name. To which, he had run from her like a coward to see to his own needs with his hand whilst lying awake for practically the whole night. That had been five days ago now and he’s managed hardly any sleep since.

“Is your woman friend keeping you up all night, brother?” Aegon’s voice boomed overhead as he caught Jon almost asleep in his parlour chair. He had not meant to nod off, the newspaper was still in his lap and he’s not entirely sure he wasn’t snoring.

“Woman friend?! My little brother has a woman friend?!” came the unexpected excitable voice of his half-sister, Rhaenys.

Jon stood to issue a kiss to each of her cheeks. “What are you doing here?” he smiled.

“Oh, Beric had some business in town so I thought I’d come to see my two favourite brothers,” Rhaenys said breezily, taking both his hands in hers before promptly dropping them and swatting him on the chest, “now don’t change the subject! _Who_ is this woman friend, hm?”

Jon felt his face redden. He glanced at Aegon for help, but the damned fool was simply standing back and grinning ear-to-ear. Jon decided to scoop his sister’s hands up again. “Now, it’s nothing to get excited over,” he said, levelling her with a serious look – a serious look that she completely ignored as she almost bounced up and down on the spot, no doubt jumping to all the wrong conclusions.

“You’re to be engaged?!” she squealed.

“No,” her face fell prompting Jon to squeezed her hands in his. “You mustn’t tell anyone. Not even father.”

Rhaenys gasped. “Is it a forbidden love, Jon?! Oh! How romantic!”

Aegon scoffed from behind where Jon was standing, sorely tempting him to turn and glower at his brother. “No, Rhaenys, please listen to me,” he said, ducking his head to look her in the eye, “I have a… _lady friend_ , who… is… just a friend… and close acquaintance.”

“Whose _‘friendship’_ you pay for,” Aegon supplied, rather unhelpfully. Jon gave in and sent his brother a warning glare.

“You pay for? Jon, I don’t understand?” His sister puzzled before she gasped again, suddenly and with disgust rather than delight this time. “Jon Targaryen! Are you frequenting a _whore?!_ ” she accused, yanking her hands away from his.

_“No!”_

_“Well-“_ Aegon interjected, his words cut off by Jon throwing him a murderous stare, to which his brother held up his hands in surrender.

Jon turned back to his sister. “She’s… she’s _not a whore_ … I have not, nor will I lay with her, but…” Jon closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “She is a courtesan, and I have entered a contract with her.”

His sister gaped at him for a time and he so dearly wanted to be able to know what was running through her mind. “She’s… a… _courtesan?”_ she asked. Jon nodded. “And… you’re… _keeping_ her?” He nodded again. “But… you’re not-“

“No, I am not.”

Rhaenys scrunched her brow in confusion. “Explain.”

After letting out a deep sigh and pinching the bridge of his nose, Jon told her the story of how he and Alayne came about. He relived the anger he felt at bidding over her like she were some sort of livestock and stressed that he is not in want to _use_ her – that he enjoys her company very much and simply did not want for her to have to sell her body to get by.

His sister continued to look confused. “But she was willing to do so… sell herself, I mean?”

Jon clenched his jaw. “Yes.”

“And she is of good class and breeding? She is educated?”

“From what I can tell, yes. I haven’t wanted to pry. What does it matter?”

Jon watched as his sister began walking across the rug back and forth, tapping at her lip as she normally does when she’s pondering over something. “I wonder what would cause her to turn to such a career?” she mused out loud. “Perhaps she has fallen into disrepute? Or her family’s fortune has been squandered and she is doing all she can to help?”

“Seven hells! She’s not a mystery novel for you to puzzle over, Rhaenys!” Jon said, exacerbated by the whole subject. “You don’t know her. You can’t deduce these things.”

“Oh good!” she clapped her hands gaily, “so you’ll introduce me?”

“I most certainly will not!”

Rhaenys simply pouted at him then. He hated _that face_ – she used to pull it at him when they were younger and he’d already declined her request for him to play with her dolls. He usually gave in. But Alayne was not one of her childhood toys.

 _She’s not your toy either,_ he thought whilst trying to squash down memories of their Governess scolding him for not sharing.

“Rhaenys,” Jon sighed, “I don’t want you making her uncomfortable. Don’t turn her into a project. Don’t… _pity_ her.”

“And why would I do that?” she asked innocently. “I would simply like to meet the woman who is living in my grandmother’s house and has quite clearly captured my dear brother’s heart.”

Jon spluttered inelegantly, attempting to refute her claims even though he knew she would not hear it. Her smile was too wide for his liking and her eyes were shining with mischief.

“Don’t forget the fortune he’s spending on her too,” Aegon offered, pouring himself a cup of tea and adding a sugar lump.

Rhaenys turned to him, her smile even more knowing. “You are?”

“Hm-mm,” Aegon replied. Jon scowled at his brother as he watched him take a sip of his tea and place the cup back on the saucer, all amusement and nonchalance. “He’s forever buying her gifts that far exceed that modest contract of theirs.”

His sister bit down on her lip. Jon could see her practically brimming with excitement. “You must really love her, Jon. You _loathe_ shopping for gifts. Please can I meet her! _Oh please!”_

Aegon put down his tea and came up behind their sister, plastering on a mock pleading face that mimicked Rhaenys’ – complete with over the top pout. “Yes, oh please Jon! Let us come with you on your visit to Miss Stone… It’s not as though we would be interrupting anything anyway.”

“Egg!” their sister tutted, elbowing Aegon in the stomach, winding him slightly.

“You two are insufferable, do you know that?!” Jon growled before stalking from the room to a chorus of _‘Jon wait!’_ and _‘does that mean I can meet her?’_ from his siblings.

 _I am not in love with Alayne,_ he told himself. _I am not._

***

Ivy bobbed up and down as she opened the door to let him in. She was blushing again, no doubt thinking on the situation with which she is employed. Both the maid and the cook had been recommended as discreet, but that did not stop them from forming opinions on Jon and his contract with Alayne. Jon felt his own cheeks redden, knowing the acts that the young maid may be imagining happening between him and Miss Stone.

_The Gods know that you’ve imagined them happening time and time again._

Jon cleared his throat and straightened his jacket as Ivy announced his arrival before showing him through to the drawing room. Alayne was sat drinking tea, a small book in her hand. She looked up at his arrival, a glorious smile gracing her lips as she deposited the book onto the table and stood to greet him. He took her hand as he was now familiar with doing, and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

“I wondered when you might return.”

Jon fought to hold back his grimace. He was due to see her two days past, but was still in a state of embarrassment over how he had fled when confronted with Alayne looking every bit like a temptress to his baser nature. “I apologise,” he said earnestly whilst fiddling with the rim of his top hat in his hands, “but my sister is visiting town and I have been a little pre-occupied.” It wasn’t a total lie. Rhaenys had continued to badger him regarding meeting Miss Stone, insisting that he was head-over-heels for this woman. He’s practically had to sneak out of their Steel Street residence this morning so that she wouldn’t beg for him to bring her too. He’d also not had time to visit the jewellers this week. “I’ve brought some manuscripts,” he blurted, shoving the file forward.

Alayne took them eagerly, always seeming more excited by a new story than she does whenever he brings around a shiny new bauble for her to wear. She immediately sat back down and pulled her shawl around her shoulders. It was the lemon yellow one he’d purchased from Mordane’s for her. 

“There’s two pieces of work in there,” he offered, taking the seat opposite. “One I am yet to read, and another which is the first fifteen chapters or so of a romance. It is of a couple who believe they are siblings, but they’re not. They spend a great number of years apart before reuniting to find that their feelings toward each other have changed.”

“Don’t spoil it!” she grinned her infectious grin before turning her attention to the stories in her hands. Jon is sure he looks positively idiotic as he smiles at Alayne, watching her thumb through the papers. She glances up, catching him staring, no doubt looking like an utter buffoon.

Jon clears his throat and gathers himself. “Would you like to do something today? We could luncheon at Nan’s Tea Rooms, or picnic in the park? The weather should hold out and we could take a stroll along the river?”

“That sounds wonderful,” Alayne beamed, “I’ll ask Nora to put together a small hamper for us.”

With that, she jumped up excitedly to seek out the cook.

 _This is good,_ Jon thought to himself, _if we are out in a public space, there’s no opportunity for things to feel intimate. My thoughts shall not wander, and my mind can stay firmly away from lusty musings._

Jon was wrong.

As soon as they left his Sisters Street property, bundled themselves into his carriage and then travelled to the nearby Visenya Park, Miss Stone seemed to be permanently adhered to his side. Not that he would ever complain of such a thing, but she kept a firm grip on his arm and had decided to seat herself rather close as they had ambled along in the carriage. The scent of her was intoxicating; sweet jasmine musk and a hint of violet along with some delicious notes of vanilla. Jon was finding it difficult to concentrate when he could feel her pressing against his side. He’s sure that he’s gulped nervously and cleared his throat unnecessarily roughly half a dozen times by now.

But he can’t deny that he likes the pretty picture she presents – staying close to him as though they were in the latter stages of courtship, or even already married. He’s sure that _that_ is the conclusion most passers-by would come to when seeing them as they are; with her clutching at his arm, smiling up at him as his hand covers hers. Happy as a lark.

They’re sat on a blanket that feels as though it must be too small, what with how Miss Stone is seated so close as they treat themselves to the fine fare that Nora had put together for them. Sitting under an ancient oak on the river bank as the sunlight beams though the branches in soft dappled patches, Jon feels nothing but content. It’s an odd feeling, but one that is very much welcome.

A family of swans with their fluffy grey signet babies swim leisurely by and the weeping willows on the other side of the river sweep their hair-like branches back and forth against the bank when the breeze catches them. And Alayne is here by his side to watch the world go by. Yes, Jon feels very content indeed.

She lets out a pleased sigh that completely sums up Jon’s thoughts. “This is lovely,” she hums, popping a small piece of lemon cake into her mouth, chewing daintily as she brushes the crumbs from her fingers. Rummaging around in the small wicker hamper, Jon finds an untouched bundle of bound cloth and a glass jar filled with cream. Unwrapping the fabric, Alayne looks pleased as a collection of strawberries, raspberries and blackberries are presented in a little pile.

“The cloth is stained,” is all Jon can think to say when he sees the smudges of red and purple juice on the white muslin.

Alayne lets out a giggle. “You really do have something of the pessimist about you don’t you, Jon?” she teased, opening the jar of cream.

“Sorry,” he flushed, ducking his head.

“Don’t be. I wouldn’t want you to censor yourself.” Alayne reassured him, picking up a strawberry by the stalk and dipping the tip in the cream. She took a bite, her eyes fluttering closed. Jon found himself paying close attention to the movement of her mouth and the look of gratification on her face. His eyes fell to her bosom, remembering the pinkish stain that a berry had once left there. He felt himself lick at his own lips before Miss Stone pulled him back to reality. “Besides,” she continued, “those who are constantly cheery cannot be trusted.”

“You are almost always cheery,” he blurted. It was true – she was. But now, in the context of their conversation Jon flushed to realise he had almost accused her of being false.

“Not always,” Alayne answered, giving him a sad excuse for a smile that turned his gut. Her smiles should never be thus. Her smiles should always be big, bright, beaming things that illuminate whole ballrooms and shame the summer sun.

He takes a breath, curious to know what she meant. If she is unhappy in any way, then he would do his upmost to amend that. But he’s caught off-guard instead, when she plucks another bright red strawberry, uses it to scoop up a dollop of thick cream and holds it out in offering. Jon eyes the fruit and then looks up to Alayne. Her smile is easy and encouraging, so he leans forward and takes a bite, satisfied at the way her glittering blue eyes watch his mouth close over the berry. Her teeth scrape against her bottom lip leaving it a little pinker as she watches him.

Without a thought, he picks a raspberry from the cloth and dips it into the jar with almost too much vigour, coating the fruit and his fingertips in the thick white cream. Offering it up for Miss Stone, Jon feels his heart drum at a tremendous pace. She looks pleased with his gesture and reaches out to curl a hand around his wrist making him wonder if she can feel how his pulse jumps at her touch.

Miss Stone does not make a move to lean in as he had, instead she slowly pulls his hand to her mouth. Looking over the cream coated berry with relish, her lips twitching a little before she moves his offering near enough that Jon can feel her breath on his fingers.

She keeps her eyes on him as her tongue comes out to brush against his thumb, taking the cream with it as she licks him clean. The other two cream-coated fingers get the same slow treatment and Jon feels his mouth hang open as he watches her lap at him tantalizingly slowly. Finally, her mouth closes over the berry as well as his digits. It’s wet and warm – almost too hot – and Jon can feel the slide of her tongue against his skin. Still with his wrist in her grasp, Alayne chews the fruit before finally swallowing. She doesn’t let go of him however, until she takes his forefinger into her mouth and sucks him clean from the knuckle.

“We should probably be heading back, I would very much like to have a read of those manuscripts,” she says, all nonchalance and normality. As if she hadn’t just performed the most erotic thing Jon had ever witnessed first-hand.

He must’ve said something in response because they’re stood and packing the picnic away before he knows it, but quite what kind of jumble of words that came flying past his lips he can’t be sure. He’s not even positive if he can recall his own name right at this very moment.

****

They retire to the Sisters Street property where Ivy makes them some tea before her and her mother leave for the evening. Jon and Alayne sit in easy silence, both looking over the manuscripts he had brought that day. Well, if truth be told, Miss Stone was reading the tale on the paper, Jon on the other hand, was getting as far a one sentence at a time before glancing up to look his fill of his companion before his eyes would return to the manuscript and he’d re-read the very same sentence once again.

“What is yours about?” Alayne asked rather suddenly, catching him staring at her over his paper.

“Uhh…” he hadn’t a clue. “A romance,” he spluttered.

“How nice, would you mind if I read it?”

“Of course not,” Jon smiled and made to offer her the story. Instead, she shook her head and stood.

“I thought perhaps we could read it together?” Taking two steps forward, her skirts brushed his knees and she bent over to finger the pages of the manuscript in his hand. “You don’t look as though you’ve gotten very far.” He hadn’t. “So I hope you wouldn’t mind starting from the beginning again?”

“Not at all,” Jon answered, still a little perplexed as to what she was suggesting. That is, until Miss Stone seated herself on his lap, a move reminiscent of that evening in the Thorn Suite. Jon’s heart thumped against his ribs and his mouth went dry.

“Is this alright?” she whispered, nestling into him. Jon nodded, not trusting his voice. He was already half hard. He cleared his throat and stared at the words on the paper in front of him to try and calm himself. It was of no use. He couldn’t concentrate on the story -  he couldn’t even recall a single character’s name. All he was consumed with was her softness, her weight against him, the warmth radiating from her and the heady scent of jasmine.

“Have you finished that page?”

He hadn’t. “Yes.”

As time went by, more and more pages had been turned and Jon had ignored every single one of them. He’d managed to move his free hand to Alayne’s hip and every now and again she’d sigh wistfully at the story that Jon had no clue about and he felt himself instinctively squeeze her closer.

It wasn’t until the brass clock on the mantel had chimed that Jon realised an hour had passed. His leg had gone somewhat numb but there was no way on God’s green earth he was going to alert Alayne to his discomfort – not with the way she had sunk into him, slipping down as she read, getting comfortable as she nestled her body into his, eventually resting her head on his shoulder.

It was perhaps a few minutes later – when Jon noticed that Miss Stone had not prompted a turning of the page for a little while – that he wondered if she’d fallen asleep on him. “Miss Stone?” he ventured in a soft voice. “Alayne?”

She squirmed, mumbling something sleepily before reaching up to clutch at his shoulder while simultaneously nuzzling her face into the side of his neck. Oh Gods but this was both heaven and hell! He placed the manuscript down on a nearby table and encircled her in his arms. She let out a pleased hum and settled back down into slumber.

After staying in that position on the love seat for as long as humanly possible before Jon completely looses the feeling in his legs, he finds himself climbing the stairs to his property with a beautiful sleepy woman in his arms.

Kicking open the door to her room, he’s pleased to find that she seems to have settled in nicely. Her belongings scattered about amongst the furniture he had picked out for her. Jon gently places her down on top of the bed, a smile gracing his lips when she mumbles some sort of sleepy thank you.

Alayne curls up on her side and lets out a contented sigh before her eyes make a very half-hearted attempt to open. She sees him and grins lazily, her face serene and content. “Am I in a dream?” she asks, voice thick with sleep.

“No,” Jon feels himself smiling down at her. “No, darling. You’re not in a dream.”

Her eyes close again and Jon is sure that she’s more than halfway back to the world of sleep when she whispers. “Stay with me.”

He stares down at her slumbering form for a good long while. Her breaths are slow relaxed little puffs of air and every now and again her hand flexes into the bed-sheets. Her hair is still up in its pins making him itch to let it out and spread it across the pillow.

It is with great reluctance that he finds himself leaving her bedside. 

 _You're a damned fool,_ he thinks to himself as he leaves the property. _A damned fool who is... probably... most likely... in love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Jon POV next chapter.... and.... ahem.... *things* might happen....


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Disclaimers for this chapter**   
> \- it was originally going to be a Jon PoV but that wasn't working so I switched to Sansa.  
> \- it is mega late here and I don't think I have enough caffeine in me to edit right now... hopefully it's not too much of a mess!  
> \- there is explicit stuff

Her back ached from sleeping in her corset, and her hair was in all kinds of disarray. But Sansa’s main complaint this morning was that her bed was empty. The sheets were cold, and she felt the chill of loneliness with them. She could hear Nora and Ivy moving around downstairs, but she did not feel like rising just yet.

Her maid rapped at the door but she sent her away, claiming a headache and wishing to stay abed for a while longer. In truth, there were several rather real aches to accompany her false one; the keenest being that of her heart.

Jon had decided he does not wish to touch her. That is the only explanation that Sansa’s mind keeps circling back to. Margaery had told her that he had been particularly uncomfortable during the discussions of a contract for her, and perhaps he had made an offer in haste and poor judgement.

 _He is regretting it,_ she thought mournfully. _He does not desire me as Margaery had said. He pitied me and was just being overly gentlemanly and protective... like a brother… not a lover._

Her thoughts flit to her dearest Robb but she shut those down quickly and locked them away deep within the recesses of her mind. _One painful musing at a time, Sansa,_ she chided herself.

_And why does it pain me? He is willing to ‘keep’ me, even if he does not wish to touch me._

_Because you are a wicked girl,_ her conscience whispered, _you want his rough hands on you, you want his breath hot in your ear, you want his teeth at your throat and his member hard between your thighs._

Sansa groaned and rolled over to her stomach, sorely tempted to scream into her feather pillow.

Her sinful lust for Jon Targaryen wasn’t the sole reason for her woes. She thinks she may be starting to _feel_ something for him, and that would be a very dangerous thing indeed.

And so the fear had started. Not only of her own emotions on the subject but of her predictions for his next decisions. He has been nothing but gentlemanly and virtuous towards her thus far, never overstepping a boundary (even when it would have been expected of him to do so in their circumstance), but Sansa simply cannot envision Jon staying interested in spending time with her in this manner. A terrible clawing feeling creeps up her chest when she ponders too hard on Jon possibly ending their contract.

She knows that it is silly to get attached to a benefactor in her line of work, but attached she is, and the thought of leaving Jon’s employment frightens her fiercely.

 _I must simply sway him,_ she decides. _I will have to show him what I can offer. Make him so satisfied that he cannot see straight._

And so Sansa formulates a plan. A plan that should not have the bodily effect that it does on her womanly place between her thighs. She bites down on her lip and goes to her dresser to fish out her little ivory friend. 

_Oh Sansa, you are a wicked, wicked girl._

***

When Sansa Stark sets her mind to something, she generally achieves her goal. She’s driven, she’s determined, she observes her progress and changes her course of action accordingly.

So far, she has gleaned that any advancement in her plans will take a certain amount of forwardness on her part. Waymar never needed such coaxing. He would simply ask if he can accompany her to the bedroom and if she agreed, then things would just… _happen._ He’d help her undress and he’d kiss her, lay her down or ask for her to do other things to him. Waymar had always led their interactions but it was starting to become clear that Jon Targeryen would need to follow ‘Alayne’s’ lead.

This new role for her was rather odd. She was no Golden Rose and did not possess the boldness and daring of Margaery Tyrell, but she had learnt a few tricks with Waymar… if only she could get the chance to perform them on Jon. Would he let her? Or would he run like he had that evening when she was in a state of undress? Sansa was certain of one thing; she must act fast and without hesitation, lest he have chance to flee again.

Tonight would be the night. Jon was taking her to a music hall where hopefully the jovial and relaxed atmosphere would put him at ease. Sansa enjoyed the songs (even the bawdy ones; sung by a woman dressed as a man!) She loved the atmosphere, the acts, the joviality of it all. She suspected that Jon wasn’t quite as enthusiastic, but whenever she glanced over at him beside her, he seemed perfectly content and returned her huge grins.

They had retired back to the Sisters Street property late. Nora and Ivy were already gone; they were alone. _Perfect._

Jon had already partaken with a few brandies at the music hall, but Sansa decided to offer him another. She made herself a sloe gin, just a small one, for courage.

“I should be leaving,” he smiled warmly at her as she turned from the drinks cabinet, his brandy in a crystal tumbler in her hand. “It is late and I did not mean to keep you.” His cheeks were still a little flushed from the drink and merriment. He had enjoyed himself tonight after he’d relaxed into it, despite the vulgarity of some of the songs or the comments bellowed from the audience. Sansa had too.

Time to put the plan into action. “You’re are right. I should retire to bed,” Sansa said calmly as she placed Jon’s untouched drink down on the silver tray next to the decanters. “Will you help me with something?”

“Anything.”

She felt her lips twitch, but she attempted to keep an air of innocence about her. “It is just that Ivy and Nora have already left, and I will be needing help with my dress,” Sansa paused to run her fingers down the dip of her waist and the flair of her hips. Jon licked at his lips, his eyes following the movement of her hands. He did not speak. “It laces at the back and is terribly difficult to undo myself,” she added.

“Of course,” Jon gulped, taking a step forward.

“Not here!” Sansa giggled, “Come, help me in the bedroom.” With that she left the drawing room and took the stairs, holding her breath until she heard noises of Jon following her up. She allowed herself a grin before silently praying for yet more courage.

Coming to a stand-still in the middle of the deep red Persian rug, Sansa waited with her back to the doorway. She heard Jon’s footsteps and could hear his breathing as he neared. She prays to any God that will hear her that his hesitancy if born out of want and restraint and not from discomfort and disinterest.

Slowly, Sansa feels the dress loosen as the satin cord rasps through the eyelets. She had chosen this very gown for a reason. As soon as the garment was loose enough, Sansa pushed the little sleeves down her arms and the dress fell to the floor with all the thud that heavy satin could manage. Sansa untied the small mohair bustle she wore before stepping out from the puddle of her dress to face Jon.  Having planned ahead and foregone a chemise, Sansa stood in her prettiest blush peach over-bust corset, stockings and white drawers adorned with lace ruffles.

Jon opened his mouth.

And closed it again.

She had him, she knew it. His eyes were thankfully full of hunger and desire as they raked over her. Not a hint of disinterest. _This was how a lover should look at his lady,_ Sansa decided. _This is how I want to be looked at by him._ The way he seemed to desperately covet her as he stood near dumb-struck sparked a feeling of power and a tingle of arousal within her.

Just as Sansa thinks he might rush forth and scoop her up, letting her know once and for all what his lips feel like on hers, what his hands feel like on her body, what his breath feels like panted against her skin, Jon opens his mouth again and this time manages to force some words out.

“I-I must be going.”

Sansa’s resolve breaks and she speaks before she can barely think. “You have not tried to touch me.” She states, although it sounds very much like an accusation.

“I…” Jon starts, watching her stalk forward warily before swallowing down whatever weak protest he were about to approach. “No. I have not.”

“Why?”

His eyes dart all around her body as she stood there in her undergarments before settling on her face. He wet his lips. “I do not wish to disrespect you, Alayne.”

Sansa’s shoulders fall. He doesn’t want her. Not enough to give into any lust that might be there anyway. “I am not desirable to you.”

With eyes that widen at her statement, Jon shakes his head. “You are! You are… _most desirable_ to me. I just…” he huffs and runs a hand through his hair, averting his eyes before he continues, “I have never… that is, I am not knowledgeable in the ways of…” he trailed off, embarrassed.

Realisation washed over Sansa. “You’ve never…lain with a woman?” A little spark of hope ignited in her chest. _It is not disinterest on his part, only inexperience?_

“No, never.” He shook his head, looking berry red. “I only thought that all that could wait until marriage.”

 _Oh, tosh to that!_ Sansa thought to herself as she took in her handsome benefactor. Biting down hard on her lip, Sansa attempted to prevent such musings from escaping. She took two more slow deliberate steps forward. His eyes snagged on her bosom so she took deep breaths, knowing the tops of her breast would rise and fall against her corset with the movement. Jon licked at his lips like she were presenting him with a delicious treat. _Perhaps I am,_ she thought wickedly.

Getting close enough to press her front to him, Sansa wound her arms around his neck, liking the way she could make his breath hitch. She stroked a palm down the right lapel of his suit jacket and repeated the action for his waistcoat, watching her fingers trace the fabric before she rested her head against his shoulder with a sigh. “Don’t you want to know what it’s like?” she whispered, moving to nuzzle at the side of his neck. “To know how good it feels?” _Oh Gods!_ She wanted to make him feel good, this sweet gentle man of hers who can quite easily make her slick between her thighs. She wanted to make him moan, wanted to hear him sing her praises in the throws of pleasure. _A shame he will not sing my true name,_ she lamented. But never mind, it cannot be helped.

Jon let a long breath out through his nose. His throat bobbed up and down right before of her. “I… I do want that, I just-“ his words cut short with an intake of air when Sansa began to press kisses to his neck. Some sort of resolve within his snapped when he groaned and turned his face to capture her lips with his as his strong arms encircled her, holding her tight and firm against his body.

Sansa moaned into the kiss. He tasted of brandy and his lips were a little chapped, but she decided instantly that she loved it. His whiskers tickled her skin and Sansa had to repress the urge to squeeze her thighs together at the thought of his beard scratching against the sensitive skin of her breasts.

Jon Targaryen’s kiss was so different to how Waymar’s had been Sansa could barely believe that Lord Royce had kissed her at all. She daren’t venture even further back and recall how Harry’s lips had felt on her, the thought was too painful. What a young, silly naïve girl she had been. She was a woman now and a woman who was being kissed like she was this man’s life source, like she was his drug and he couldn’t get enough of the high she was giving him.

His lips left hers with a groan before they quickly sought her jaw and neck. “ _Oh Jon_ ,” she sighed, smoothing her hands up his shoulders and neck before spearing her fingers through those inky curls. She took firm fistfuls of his hair and held him closer, tilting her head to grant him as much access as he may want to her throat.

“Alayne,” he whispered reverently into her skin between kissing and caressing with the warmth of his tongue. His head dropped lower. Sansa encouraged him by pushing out her bust. _“Gods!”_ he muttered to himself as she felt his hot breath pant against her cleavage. He licked a wet path over the curve of one breast and then the other, his beard scratching delightfully at her skin.

Sansa wanted him. She wanted to show him how well she could care for him in this regard. It mattered not that he was inexperienced – in fact, it gave her a certain thrill to know that she could be the first to give him this kind of pleasure. She yanked him up by his hair and sought his lips again before he pulled away, panting.

“Let me undress you,” Sansa offered, already pushing his jacket over his shoulders. It landed with a muted noise in a puddle on the floor.

“I have no provisions!” Jon blurted rather suddenly. “That is, I… I did not expect… so I…” he trailed off, his face burning red as he stared at her lips like her longed to return to them. His curls were a mess from her pawing at them. He looked positively delicious.

 _He has no sheath,_ Sansa realised when she’d let his words sink in. She could go and prepare a sponge but that would involve some preparation and temporarily breaking away from the glorious feeling of being in Jon’s arms with his mouth on her, listening to him groan as his hands wandered her waist, hips and rear. Besides, now she has coaxed those sublime lips of his into bestowing her some hungry kisses, she’s half afraid he might bolt again should she not keep him interested.

Sansa briefly wondered if she could use the same method she and Waymar came to perfect, but quickly dismissed the idea, for now at least. Jon has said himself he has no experience, could she trust him to pull himself from her before his completion? No, that seems far too risky.

Her mind flit through all the acts that used to drive Waymar wild. _Ah-ha!_ She thought. _Perfect!_ Her lips curled up into a predatory smile. Before she leant forwards to peck at his mouth a little. “Hush, do not fret,” Sansa cooed and stroked his hair, his beard, his shoulders. “Let me care for you, my love.”

Her heart skipped a beat as soon as the endearment was out of her mouth. Why was that?

 _Because it’s true. You love him,_ a wayward whisper rasped behind her ear. She bat it away as quickly as she could. _I do not. I will not allow that to happen._

Guiding him over to the low armchair, Sansa urged him to sit before she knelt on the rug-covered floor between his legs. Jon’s eyes were on her, rapt with attention. Leaning up to kiss him once more, Sansa allowed herself to enjoy the taste of him, the wanton rumble in his chest when she sucked lightly on his tongue and the way his arms seemed to want to gather her closer, hold her tighter. She slunk away, resting back to make space for her deeds.

With a heart pitter-pattering in an almost giddy excitement that perplexed her somewhat, Sansa’s teeth sunk into her lower lip as she undid the buttons to Jon’s fall-front trousers. She looked up to him to see that he was watching her hands intently. It seemed like he was holding his breath as she reached into his drawers and pulled out his member.

It was hard and ready. Thicker than Waymars had been but no longer, and had a prominent vein jaggedly running up the underside of him. She stroked his cock once, twice, thrice, studying him and deciding she was pleased with what she saw – so pleased in fact that she felt the need to shift a little to find some pleasant friction.

With half-lidded storm grey eyes locked on hers and a mouth slightly agape, Jon let out the most needy groan she’d ever heard when she pressed her lips to the tip of his manhood and proceeded to drop little tender kisses down the length of his shaft. The noise he made only served to excite her further. She felt powerful in doing this, in unmanning him with her wicked actions.

Jon’s flesh was hot and as smooth as fine velvet beneath her lips. She pressed the flat on her tongue to him once she reached the base and dragged herself back up to the tip before closing her mouth over him and sinking back down.

 _“Fuck!”_ Jon whispered, his hands balling into fists on top of thighs. “Alayne! _Oh darling girl!”_

She suckled on him a little harder, building up a rhythm of bobbing up and down before releasing him completely and letting her hand take over the motion, his manhood now slick with saliva. “Does that feel good?” she cooed, “Do you like my mouth on you?”

He nodded out a whimper in response.

Sansa shuffled closer before taking him in her mouth again. One of her hands reached for his and he grasped her tightly in an instant, his fingers interlacing with her own.

Sansa suckled and slurped in a most un-lady-like fashion as she took him in her mouth repeatedly, her tongue occasionally swirling over the head of his manhood. Jon’s breathing was starting to become laboured and his stomach was jumping and contracting every now and again. His eyes continued to watch her reverently, as though he he might blink and she'd be gone.

“So good,” he whispered, his free hand coming up to stroke her cheek. “Oh Gods, Alayne, that feels so good!”

She hummed contentedly around her mouthful, making Jon grunt and squeeze his eyes closed. She did it again, mimicking a noise she might make when appreciating a delicious treat.

“Alayne,” Jon pants, “ _my love,_ I-I’m nearing-…I’m going to finish!”

He wants her to move, she realises, but she does not comply. She never did this for Waymar, instead she would normally pull off of him to finish across her breasts. He’d seemed to have liked that. But the wicked girl inside of her wanted to taste Jon. She wanted all of him.

She sucked him harder and bobbed even faster until he was babbling incoherently, whispering, grunting and groaning of how good she was making him feel, calling her _‘my girl’_ , _‘my love’_ , _‘Alayne, Alayne, Alayne!’_

After, when the taste of him had coated her tongue and Jon was spent, panting up to the ceiling of her bedroom. She crawled up onto his lap and kissed lightly at his cheeks, his chin, his nose, his lips. “Did you like that?”

Jon wrapped his strong arms around her. “Yes,” he answered, burying the side of his face against her chest as he continued to catch his breath, “ _Gods, yes!”_ she felt him laugh a little before he began nuzzling into her and holding her tighter.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me if you enjoyed this chapter - I feel like I'm rusty with the ol' smut


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys - my little girl started 'big school' today and I'm all kinds of emotional! So to cheer myself up, I thought I'd post this update!
> 
> I wanted to add a note on the past chapter that I wound up forgetting to do! smh! I had intended to mention that Sansa pondering on using a sponge as a possible contraceptive was one method that Victorian ladies used. According to Therese O'neill, author of 'Unmentionable: The Victorian Lady’s Guide to Sex, Marriage and Manners', women were advised to use a small sponge soaked in a weak solution of iron and sulphate (YIKES), attach some sewing silk as a string like that of a tampon and insert it into themselves to collect the sperm and prevent the lil swimmers getting to their prize.
> 
> Regarding this chapter - there will be more notes at the end but for now all you might need to know is that 'Swell's Night Guide' was a real booklet that was, among other things a directory of prostitutes, complete with very frank reviews.

JON

Repeatedly smoothing his whiskers down with his forefinger and thumb wasn’t particularly helping Jon in coming to a decision, and neither was bouncing his leg up and down as he sat in his parlour chair, the limb seemingly possessed with a nervous sort of spirit.

_Should I do this?_

The brass clock on the mantle chimed loudly causing Jon to throw a scowl and a huff in its direction. The object paid him no heed and instead continued it’s merry singing out of the time. He worried his lip with his teeth and narrowed his eyes at the floral pattern on his bone china teacup sat beside him on the table. The tea had gone cold.

 _You should do this,_ he affirmed to himself, _you owe it to her._

Jon allowed his head to loll back against the chair as he closed his eyes and felt his throat bob, swallowing down his reservations.

Delightfully sinful visions swam in front of his closed eyelids; images such as his dearest Alayne knelt between his splayed legs, issuing delicate little presses of her lips to his member before taking him in whole, her head nodding back and forth as she suckled him with her crystal blue eyes big and bright. Jon felt himself grow hot at the memory all over again. Never had he experienced such a thing.

Alayne Stone had shown him a pathway that meandered along all Seven Heavens with that devilish mouth of hers, and Jon is sure he’s due to repent to one God or another for just how very much he enjoyed her attentions two nights past. He is due to visit her again on the morrow, and so he must prepare to-

“Little brother!” a booming voice breaks Jon away from his musings, his head snapping up just in time to see Aegon step through the parlour door with a wide grin on his face. “I was told you wished to see me?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Jon admitted dryly, sitting up a little straighter.

His brother cocked his head. “Well?”

“Close the door, will you?”

Aegon does as he was bid whilst wearing a puzzled look upon his face as he contemplates Jon. “What’s this all about then?” he asked, settling into the adjacent armchair.

Jon leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees before taking a deep breath. “I need experience,” he admitted with closed eyes that slowly opened to see the confused expression had not left his brother’s features. “With women,” he clarified.

“Well that’s what I’ve been telling you for years now.”

Jon stared at his brother, praying that he would pick up the breadcrumbs he was feeding him and not force his hand to have to explain any further. He sighed at the realisation that he was blessed with no such luck. “I want to be able to… _please_ Alayne… _in the bedroom.”_

A slow smirk crept its way onto Aegon’s lips. “That so, aye old chap? Knew you wouldn’t be able to keep your hands to yourself with a little strumpet like that-“

“ _Don’t-“_ Jon closed his eyes and sighed once more. “Don’t call her that.”

Jon watched as his brother waved a hand dismissively as if batting away Jon’s complaint. He was already beginning to regret his chosen course of action. “Never mind all that,” Aegon said, shaking his head, “ _you_ , dear fellow, need to get yourself down to Lady O’s Nunnery.”

“Nunnery?” Jon furrowed his brow, not quite following.

“Yes,” Aegon reached across to steal Jon’s cup of tea only to blanch and aim a disgusted look at the offending cup after tasting the cold liquid. “The establishment is very fine. Highly recommended in the Swell’s Night Guide.” Aegon finally glanced to Jon who must have looked already so out of his depth. “ _A brothel_ , dear brother… that is what you’re after, is it not?”

Jon spluttered a little before he could answer, feeling his cheeks aflame. “Well… _yes_ , but… you have a copy of the Night Guide?”

“I do indeed,” Aegon grinned before standing and walking over to the bureau to start rifling around.

“You keep it _here_?!”

“Calm down, Jon. It’s only a book!”

“Yes but remember how irate father got when he found you in possession of a copy of The Pearl when we were young?! You couldn’t sit down for a week from the caning he ordered Governess to-“

“Yes, yes,” Aegon chuckled fondly causing Jon to shake his head.

_How can you find even that memory amusing?_

“But that was when I was young, dear little brother. I am a man now,” he said before pulling out a small pocket book from amongst the papers. “Ah-ha!” he said in triumph, bringing it over and handing it to Jon. “And so are you,” Aegon tapped the front cover. “Man enough to enjoy a gentleman’s pleasures, I’d say.”

“I-“ Jon wasn’t too sure on what to say. This had been his idea after all; to sequester his brother away for some advice on where he might approach, but now he had a whole book full of said advice in his hands and he’s still not confident on whether he should, in fact, act upon that advice.

 _You want to make it good for her, do you not_? He asked himself. _Alayne deserves someone who has knowledge on how to play her body like a pianist teases the ivory keys, not some greenboy who is likely to spill his seed as soon as she bares her breast!_

Jon opened the book and flipped to a page at random, his eyes skimming the page…

**_Lady Chataya’s Introducing House, Old Gate Lane_ **

_…nothing is allowed to get stale ... you may have your meat dressed to your own liking ... her flock is in prime condition, and always ready for sticking; when any of them are fried, they are turned out to grass ... consequently the rot, bots, glanders, and other diseases incidental to cattle, are not generally known here…_

Jon’s eye’s widened as he turned the page…

**_Miss Tansy, 6 Riverland Street_ **

_Miss Tansy enacted scenes with herself as a schoolmistress with her 'two young beautiful tits’, one about fifteen and the other sixteen, who are always dressed in frocks like school girls. The damsel is also specialised in the game ‘milk the cow’ and will entertain all appetites for a more than reasonable price._

His mouth fell agape and his eyes left the page to gawp at his brother. Listing women’s services thusly in such a brutally frank manner twisted his gut in a similar vein as that of when his hand had been forced to bid on his Alayne like some prized cattle.

“Turn to the front few pages. You’ll find the review of Mrs O’s establishment there,” Aegon said, completely missing his brother’s discomfort. After flipping through a few pages, Jon found the correct entry.

**_Lady O’s Nunnery, Redwyne House, Rose Row_ **

_Highly discreet and well-furnished in both décor and stock. Many a filly of genteel persuasion awaits the gentleman who wishes to taste the delights on offer. Lady O is of good age and solid wit, she procures a vast number of damsels for the old and young debauchee; men of life may soon find themselves in a most delightful seraglio. The man of town must have knowledge of this fine nunnery as street observers will note the brass plate upon the façade denotes that of a corset maker and milliner within, when in fact this ingenuity merely conceals the temple of Venus and Voluptuarians._

Jon skims the words once more before he is interrupted by one of Aegon’s fingers tapping on the page. “See little brother?” he says, “most discreet whorehouse in town I’ll bet,” Aegon grinned. “Do you have a _‘letter from Lys’_?”

Jon coughed sheepishly. “I’ve sent away for one.”

“Good man! Can’t be too careful with whores. Wouldn’t want my little brother coming back to me riddled with cupid’s disease!”

***

Jon quirked his lips into a fleeting smile and gave a polite nod of acknowledgment to the nanny walking the pram, no doubt with her charge safely tucked up inside. He passed a governess and small boy, out to take advantage of the fine weather. By all accounts, Rose Row seemed no different to any number of presentable street in town, full of upstanding citizens milling about and seeing to their own business.

He found a bench on the opposite side of the street to that of Redwyne House and promptly sat to do little more than observe the innocuous looking building. Swell’s Guide had been right, there was a shiny brass plaque outside that claimed the property was that of a corset maker and milliner.

Narrowing his eyes, Jon observed the large sash windows. There was only one that was open, with net curtains billowing outwards on the soft afternoon breeze. It was of no use, he couldn’t very well see into the place from where he was, or overhear bawdy noises from within. If he wanted to enquire further, he will need to knock on that door.

He thought of Alayne and visiting her tomorrow - _and Gods_ \- if she would permit him to touch her, then he dearly wishes to do so in a way that would please her. Jon doesn’t see any other option open to him in order to gain this knowledge. So here he is; waiting around on a bench, staring at a rather bland looking building, all while his nerves are doing some sort of demonic dance in his veins. What has he become? What is he willing to do for this woman? ‘What _isn’t_ he willing to do’ is probably the more prominent query one should be asking. Jon surmises that it should be an extremely short answering list. In these past few months she has utterly bewitched him and he is glad of it; he can scarcely recall ever feeling this happy.

Taking a deep breath, Jon crossed the street and promptly rapped on the door with his cane before his wits would have chance to catch up with him. The door opened a fraction and a pair of young wide brown eyes peered out from within. “I’m here to visit Lady O,” Jon said, clearing his throat. He was bid inside with the door hastily closed behind him.

The entrance hallway looked to be that of any highly respectable property, with polished floors and dark mahogany furniture. A huge porcelain vase filled with beautiful golden-yellow roses seemed to be the centre focal point. “If you would follow me, sir,” the maid asked, leading him to a side parlour. Jon removed his top hat and followed, his tongue feeling dense in his mouth.

As soon as entering the room, Jon swallowed thickly. There were several woman draped in various armchairs or chaise longue, all turning their attention towards him and straightening in their seats to better appeal to their new potential client. Few of them could have been deemed as dressed, with the majority donning robes the likes of which Margaery Tyrell had worn on that fateful night Jon had met Miss Stone. Without much thought on exactly how he should proceed, Jon was left with little else to do than bow his head to the room. “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said with a small smile, trying to sound at ease.

“You’re new,” a beauty with deep garnet-red hair grinned at Jon saucily as she stood and came to talk to him, “what would a fine gentleman such as yourself be looking for today, hm?” she hummed, her eyes raking him up and down with delight.

Jon shifted his feet a little and furrowed his brow. “Lady O, I presume?”

The redhead chuckled and shook her head. “Our mistress is most likely taking tea with the rest of high society I’m afraid,” feigning a disappointed kind of apology. She took a step closer and began smoothing her hands up and down Jon’s lapels. “But we can help you… with _whatever_ you’d like. I’m Ros,” she smiled enticingly, “and who might you be?”

“Jon,” he supplied, taking a small step back to discourage Ros’ display of familiarity. He licked his lips and let out a little huff of breath before continuing with his request. “I’d like two of you… please. The most experienced.”

***

“Are you sure that’s all you want?” Ros asked after she’d selected another woman, a dark-haired, blue-eyed girl named Bella to join them upstairs in one of the ‘entertaining rooms’.

Jon wet his lips and nodded quickly. “Yes. I want you to show me how to… how to please a woman. How to help her achieve…” his words trailed off and he was left gesturing with a little wave of his hand that did nothing to communicate his goals.

“Climax?” Ros offered.

“Exactly.”

“I can do that,” Bella said with a smirk, starting to make her way over to where he stood. “I’ll show you how to ring my bell.”

“No,” Jon shook his head, the collar of his shirt suddenly feeling far too hot, “not with me. Show me what to do… _with her,”_ he inclined his head at Ros.

Both women looked to each other, silently communicating before nodding their approval. “Whatever you wish, mi’lord,” Ros replied. “This woman of yours; is she highborn and genteel?”

Images of Alayne nestled up to him on his lap, at their picnic, sucking the cream from his finger… and then kneeling before him sucking something else entirely flashed before his mind. He cleared his throat. “Yes. She is.”

Bella began stalking forward again. “Must be nice to have a gentleman such as yourself willing to care for her pleasure,” she purred before cocking her head at him. “Sure you don’t want to join us? Ros and I can show you how to make us see stars before we return the favour. You’ll enjoy it.”

Ros came up behind her to add her own advice, reaching forward to untie Bella’s robe and slip it from her shoulders and leave the girl standing there completely nude as if nothing were amiss. “From my experience it is better to learn from practice rather than observation, Jon,” she grinned, peppering Bella’s shoulder and neck with kisses from where she still stood behind, her hands smoothing around her ribs to cup and squeeze the other girl’s breasts. “Wouldn’t you like to play?”

Jon’s lips parted as he watched the display before him with Ros alternating between kneading Bella’s breasts and pinching her tawny nipples into erect points. He wondered if Alayne would like such a treatment and promptly swallowed thickly and shook his head. “No, I-“

This time Ros stepped aside and rid herself of her own robe, baring her naked body for him. Jon’s eyes dropped to the thatch of auburn hair that covered her intimate area and yet again he thought of his Alayne. Bella’s mound was covered in thick dark curls similar to the hair on her head and her hips were narrower than that of Ros’. Ros’ breasts were fuller, with larger, lighter-coloured teats whereas Bella was much slighter all over. For some reason, the reaffirmed knowledge that the bodies of women differed vastly pleased Jon and once more he wondered on his Alayne. He had grown hard and had begun to tent his trousers – a fact that had not been missed by the two women present.

“See, _someone_ wants to join in,” Bella giggled, eyeing Jon’s mortifying bulge. He must put a stop to this teasing. He’s here to learn, not partake.

“You,” Jon inclined his head towards Bella, “show me what to do to her,” he nodded to Ros. “I won’t be taking part. Just show me… please.”

“Suit yourself,” the dark-haired girl shrugged before looking to Ros, communicating silently again. Jon was a little in awe at how women possessed such a skill.

“Are you prepared to tip the velvet, mi’lord?” Ros asked.

Jon frowned. “Tip the velvet?”

“Yes. It’s the surest way to get any woman off… unless your lady-friend is particularly prudish?”

“No… uh… no, she’s not,” Jon flustered a little remembering how Alayne had hummed delightfully around his cock as if she took enjoyment from the act as well. “What… does it entail?”

Both women grinned at each other. “Let us show you.”

***

Jon could hardly wait to visit Alayne today. Yesterday at the whorehouse had been a sort of revelation. As soon as Ros had splayed her legs wide to allow Bella to worship between them he knew he wanted to kneel at Miss Stone’s alter in the very same fashion.

He wondered how she would taste. He’d almost asked Bella to describe it for him but knew that line of enquiry would only pull forth their insistence that he join in on the act. He can’t say that he was not tempted, but the purpose of his visit to Lady O’s was knowledge, not pleasure. He’ll save that for his Alayne. If she’ll allow it.

 _Oh Gods, I hope she’ll allow it,_ he thought, his mouth beginning to water.

His stance remained the same, however. He would not force her into anything she did not want but he remained hopeful that she did, in fact, feel some desire for him beyond that of being in his employment.

After breaking his fast, a maid brought that morning’s newspaper, freshly pressed. His eyes skimmed over the ink, but he had not taken in any of the words, too absorbed in thoughts of what may transpire later on today. He enquired if there had been any further post for him without success. He had hoped that the sheath he had sent away for may have made a speedy delivery to him, but alas he is still without.

 _Nevermind,_ Jon thought, _it shall not be needed for Alayne’s pleasure,_ he smirked to himself.

Jon decided to make a call to the jewellers. He has bestowed a few trinkets to Miss Stone by now and had spied a beautiful chestnut jewellery box, inlaid with walnut and mother-of-pearl. He hoped she would make use of it and find it pleasing.

With the newly purchased chestnut box sat beside him in the carriage, Jon could not keep the smile from his lips as they amble along the roads on his way to his Sisters Street property. He very nearly leapt from the coach upon hearing the horseman give the command for his beasts to slow.

Taking the front stone steps two at a time, Jon’s heart beat double-time at the prospect of seeing his Alayne once more… and for what she might permit him to do for her later this evening once the staff have left them to themselves. Licking his lips in anticipation, he raised his cane to rap on the door.

“Good day, Ivy!” he practically sang with a smile, not waiting for her to let him in or ask him through to the sitting room. “Marvellous weather we’re having,” Jon commented, handing over his top-hat and cane as the poor girl looked to him, a little stunned at his overly cheery outburst. It did not matter. All that matters is seeing Alayne.

Jon did not wait to be announced, instead pushing open the door to the parlour himself to find his dearest Alayne sat drinking tea with none other than his sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helllooooo - thank you for staying with this story - please let me know what you think of this chapter!
> 
> Notes:  
> 'Letter from Lys' was me having a bit of a play with the fact that condoms were sometimes referred to as 'French letters' historically in England. 
> 
> The entries from Swell's Night Guide contain some real quotes from both Swell's and 'the Harris List' (another guide for the gentleman about town looking for a good time) although the latter was in circulation in the 18th century, rather than during the Victorian era. 
> 
> I don't know what the game 'milk the cow' entails.... but I could guess. lol
> 
> Also - I originally had Ros paired with Yara in the tags instead of Bella (the whore from the Peach at Stoney Sept who claims to be one of Robert Baratheon's bastards in canon) but it just wasn't working.
> 
> Oh! And the next chapter is already written - woo hoo!


	12. Chapter 12

Taking the time to sip her tea daintily, Sansa surveyed her little parlour room as if the means to further the conversation would leap from behind the armchair and save herself from the bubbling pit of embarrassment currently wreaking havoc in her stomach. Jon’s sister, Rhaenys smiled prettily at her and complimented the biscuits that Ivy had just bought out for them.

Sansa smiled awkwardly in return, still at a loss as for what to say to her unexpected guest.

 _Does she know?_ Sansa wondered, nibbling on a biscuit and offering Rhaenys another. _Silly chit! Of course she knows! Why would Jon house a woman otherwise?_

“My brother has had the place redecorated, I see,” the woman beside her commented, nodding her head in the direction of the William Morris wallpaper. “I like it much better,” she continued, “Grandmama was a stickler for red and black. Red and black everywhere! It became quite tiring... this is much more cheery.”

Sansa supposes that Rhaenys Dondarrion was only attempting to make pleasurable talk, perhaps sensing that she was ill at ease. But bringing up the very fact that Jon had housed his kept woman in their Grandmother’s property did nothing to help matters.

Sansa watched as Jon’s sister put her china cup down on the saucer and then shifted in her seat, she reached across and placed a warm hand over Sansa’s skirted knee. “Tell me about yourself, Alayne,” she smiled, her violet eyes blinking prettily, “if, you’ll allow me to use your given name, that is?”

“Um, yes, that’s… that’s quite alright.”

“Excellent,” she straightened, a tendril of dark hair coming loose from her chignon. “My brother has been rather secretive about you and I am adamant that this will be rectified.”

Sansa’s eyes must’ve gone wide because Rhaenys most definitely correctly deduced the feeling of panic rising at the back of her throat.

“Oh! Do not fret, Alayne,” Rhaenys said. “I know you are dearest Jon’s…ah, that is that you are in his _employment_ , but I also know that he has not… well… you two are not…”

This seemed to be the first time that Sansa’s guest had become uncomfortable of sorts.

“Engaged in the physical?” Sansa offered, her cheeks heating from memories of freeing Jon’s stiff member from his trousers just three days past.

Rhaenys smiled. “Yes, quite,” she paused to take a sip of tea, “Jon is a good man, and while his head is constantly within the world of publishing, he has never really made any effort to find himself a wife – “

Sansa spluttered into her tea rather inelegantly before waving away Rhaeney’s concerned expression.

“Well,” she continued, “he’s always been adamant that his career is put before any woman, but now, dear Alayne, he seems much changed, and this, I believe, is all your doing.”

“I… I…”

Rhaenys let out a sigh. “I know my visit is rather unexpected and this whole situation-” she gestured around the room as if that were sufficient explanation, “-is rather unorthodox. But, you see, I wanted to find out myself who it is that has managed to pique my brother’s interest so… and to see if there might be more to this funny little arrangement you find yourself in on your part.”

“More?” Sansa asked, a little lost.

“Yes,” she folded her hands into her lap as if preparing to hear a long and enthralling tale, “do you see yourself developing any kind of attachment to my brother beyond that which is stated in your contract?”

Sansa felt her brows knit together. “Attachment… do you mean-“

“ _Love_ , Alayne,” Rhaenys reached forwards once more, “could you _love_ him?”

She’s sure that her mouth opened and then closed itself up again. Her heart began playing a panicky type of pitter patter against the confines of her ribs. _‘Love’_ is a most dangerous notion indeed and Sansa was doing all she could to dampen down the urge to flee; flee this conversation, flee her company, flee this house, flee J-

 _No_. _Not him._

“I know my brother, and Jon would never truly be happy within a union without it,” Rhaenys continued, “and he would certainly be crushed to find that his love is not reciprocated.”

“ _Heavens_ ,” Sansa said to herself, taking a sip of tea to calm her nerves, “this is all rather…” _Forward Unexpected? Utterly terrifying?... Frightfully hopeful?_

“I’m getting ahead of myself,” Rhaenys chuckled, “I often do. But I should like for us to be great friends, you and I, Alayne… Would you permit it?”

It was then that they heard a tap at the door, followed by the noise of Ivy letting someone in. The murmuring timbre of a man’s voice seeped through the wall that separated them, making Sansa’s insides stir and ache all at once. Quite suddenly Jon appeared, his cheery expression morphing through shock, confusion and then irritation all at once when his eyes landed upon his sister.

“Jon,” Sansa stood, brushing down her skirts, “I-Mr Targaren,” she corrected in front of her guest. “Your sister is visiting and-“

Jon narrowed his eyes at Rhaenys. “I can see that,” he said, his voice thick with accusation. “Rhaenys? A word?” he indicated to the hallway with a sharp jab of his head. Rhaenys rolled her eyes but stood to remove herself from the room, leaving Jon to smile softly at Sansa as she stood there fiddling with her fingers.

“ _What are you doing here?!”_ she heard him hiss at his sister in the hallway. Sansa knew she should not eavesdrop, but she didn’t seem to have too much say in the matter.

“Calm down, Jon! I only wanted to get to know-“

“You’re making her uncomfortable!”

“Oh tosh! I simply wish to have a nice chat with the woman who I may someday call sister.”

Sansa found herself sitting down quite suddenly, her breath coming out in a little huff as she did so. _Would Jon consider such a thing?_ Marriages between courtesan’s and their benefactors are not uncommon, but Sansa mistrusts the taste of hope in her mouth.

“ _Rheanys!,”_ she heard Jon chastise in a hushed tone, “do not speak as though you have everything in hand with your plans and your... _meddling!_ ” The hopeful flavour rapidly sours on Sansa’s tongue. “This is not one of your matchmaking games from the ton! Miss Stone is…Miss Stone is…” The pause Jon takes to gather his wits is maddening until he simply says, “Miss Stone is… _different.”_

 _Of course I am,_ she thinks as she stares blankly at the closed door _. Of course I am._

There’s a few more moments of hushed exchange before both Targaryen siblings re-enter the parlour. Rhaenys looking amused and Jon looking rather vexed. Ivy brings him tea but his sour disposition does not change whilst he waits for his sister to finish her own refreshment. Sansa engages Mrs Dondarrion in small talk that is somewhat awkward even though her guest smiles warmly at her and seems attentive and affable.

“Oh! Isn’t that darling!” Rhaenys chirps, taking the beautiful wooden box that had been resting on Jon’s knee. It was inlaid with a pattern of iridescent mother-of-pearl that Sansa couldn’t quite take her eyes from. “Is this a gift, Jon?”

“Yes,” he answered, clearing his throat and leaning forward to snatch the box back from his sister, “for Alayne,” Jon said, offering the pretty present to Sansa.

Opening up the lid and peering into the little compartments, Sansa searches for the proper words of gratitude before she’s interrupted by another knock at the door signals yet another visitor.

“What in all the bloody seven hells are you doing here?” Jon asks his brother as he glares at Aegon when he is announced.

“Jon!” Rhaenys tuts at her brother’s language whilst also giving him a sharp nudge in the shin with her boot.

“Charming,” Aegon chuckles, “nice to see you too, little brother. I came to warn you that our sister is set on visiting your…” his eyes met with Sansa’s and he cleared his throat, “visiting with Miss Stone. Although I see I’m rather late to the party,” Aegon finished with an amused smile.

“I can see that,” Jon remarked irritably. “She’s making Alayne uncomfortable.”

“I’m doing no such thing!”

“It’s quite alright, honestly,” Sansa added, although she’s not sure that Jon believes her one wit.

“I also needed to let you know that father has arrived in town earlier this morning,” Aegon said, “and he’s looking for you.”

“I’m not interested in seeing father,” Jon bristled. Sansa wondered at that.

“I don’t think you have a choice, old chap,” his brother chuckled and pat him on the shoulder. “Anyway, I must be off. Rhaenys, Miss Stone,” he bowed his head in farewell to both ladies before turning to his brother once more. “Did you manage to visit Lady O?” he asked.

Jon spluttered into the gulp of tea he was taking, his face turning the shade of a pomegranate. “Uh… yes, yes.”

“Who is Lady O?” Rhaenys asked, a confused crease between her brow. Sansa was curious to know also. Her mind whirred through the ladies of the ton as to whose name may fit the initial. She came up decidedly short of an answer but with a horrid sense of déjà vu.

“Oh, no-one of consequence,” Aegon grinned before finally bidding them all a good afternoon.

***

The brass clock on the mantlepiece chimed its hourly song as Sansa and Jon sat in relative silence, both looking over some of Jon’s latest submissions. Although, Sansa suspects that neither of them are particularly paying too much attention to the stories set before them, what with Jon’s constant glances in her direction and his knee bouncing up and down skittishly, and with her mind all a whir after Rhaenys’ talk of ‘love’ and whomever this ‘Lady O’ woman is. She wonders if Jon had expected her to perch on his lap to read, like they had done so before. But she couldn’t think to do that just yet, Jon’s siblings visits earlier have set a swarm of buzzing queries upon her poor nerves and she feels all a muddle.

Sansa does not feel ready to ponder too much upon the first question that arose today; could she love Jon? She suspects she already knows the answer, but that part of her heart has been stung before. And she is yet to properly heal from it. Sansa had thought that Jon’s attentions and sweetness had been a like a balm… but perhaps they are more akin to a complication? A hinderance, even?

And then there’s the matter of Rhaenys’ not-too-subtle hints at a possible marriage between them. But what if his sister has it wrong? What if this ‘Lady O’ is whom Jon is meant for? Her heart gives a little lurch at the thought. What if – instead of Sansa – it is this mysterious Lady O who has ‘piqued Jon’s interest’? What if the love Rhaenys suspects is in her brother’s heart is not meant for Alayne Stone at all?

Sansa felt suddenly dizzy – even in her seated position. She set aside the manuscript she had spent the last hour ignoring and rubbed inelegantly at her forehead.

“Are you well?” Jon asked, concern marring his features.

 _Must you be so sweet?_ Sansa thought, a little irritably, _you meddle with my nerves when you are so sweet._ “It is nothing,” she lied. “Too much reading perhaps.”

“Very well,” Jon smiled before leaning forwards and dropping his voice to a low and husky manner that has no business affecting Sansa in the way that is does, “perhaps we could-“

“Tea, Mr Targaryen, Miss Stone?” Ivy interrupted, bobbing in the doorway with a silver tray in her hands. Sansa bid her enter and distribute the drinks, all while Jon leant back in his chair, scowling at the poor girl as he rubbed contemplatively at his beard.

“Ivy,” he said, his eyes set determinedly on Sansa, “you and your mother are dismissed for the rest of the day,” he told her, his voice commanding in a way Sansa had not yet heard from him before.

“Yes, sir,” Ivy curtsied before hurrying from the room, leaving them alone.

The look Jon bestows upon her once the girl has scrambled from the room made her tummy flutter and her thighs squeeze together. He looked positively ravenous and thoughts of this ‘Lady O’ began to fade to be replaced by memories of watching the man before her come undone under her own attentions. “Would it be more comfortable to move to the bedroom,” she heard herself saying.

Jon licked his lips, his eyes dropping to where her bosoms were rising a falling with excited breaths. “That would be most suitable,” he answered.

Leading him up the stairs, Sansa glanced down through the polished bannister to catch Ivy’s wide eyes watching her ascend upstairs with Jon following closely behind. Sansa tucked her embarrassment away; the girl and her mother knew the arrangement. _Although halting the day at barely 3 in the afternoon for a roll between the bedsheets is probably most scandalous indeed!_

Standing in the middle of the rug in her bedroom, Sansa turned slowly to see Jon standing in the doorway, the same hungry look in his eye, causing her to catch her bottom lip between her teeth.

“May I kiss you, Alayne?” he asked, that voice of his dipping low and caressing down her spine. Sansa swears the fine hairs on the back of her neck began to rise. She found herself unable to answer and decided that a nod of the head will have to suffice.

The distance between them rapidly disappeared beneath Jon’s quick long strides. His hands came up to cradle her face before his lips pressed to hers quite suddenly, swallowing down her little gasp with a groan that rumbled in his chest.

Once Sansa’s senses had gathered themselves, her mouth began to move in time with Jon’s and his hands caressed down her jaw and neck, slipping to her shoulders, bringing her closer until they rested on her waist, gripping her tightly like he thought she may flee this delicious affection. A small part of her want to; the part that felt scared and hopeless. The part she was trying desperately to ignore.

“Alayne,” he murmured into her lips before kissing her with even more ardour, his tongue sliding into her mouth to taste her. Sansa heard herself whimper as she clutched onto his lapels of his waistcoat. It was as though he meant to bend her backwards. _Perhaps he does?_ she wonders as he carries on kissing her with a passion that was making her quite dizzy.

Before he really does cause her to lose her footing and tumble behind herself, Sansa takes a small step back, Jon follows, never breaking his contact with her lips. Sansa takes another, thoroughly distracted by the hungry sounding noises vibrating from Jon’s throat, the delightful tickle of his whiskers on her skin and the way his hands felt hot and possessive even through the heavy boning of her corset. It takes her only one more step to realise that he is, in fact, manoeuvring her towards her bed as if choreographing them both with that sweet mouth of his.

He breaks away, panting and eyes ablaze with needfulness. “May I rid you of your dress?” he asks, forehead pressed to hers. Once again, the man before her seemed to have robbed Sansa of her voice and she does nothing more than nod her assent.

Jon moved behind her to begin pulling at her lacings. He starts slow and purposeful, but without even being able to view his movements, Sansa can tell that he begins to hurry with a barely contained excitement. The dress loosens enough for her to push her sleeves down, freeing her arms. Quite suddenly, she feels the warmth of Jon’s chest pressed to her back and his lips softly laying kisses to her now bared shoulder where he tugs at the little sleeve of her chemise. She even thinks she can feel him lick her skin; an act that tears a little moan from her throat and shudder down her spine. Jon pushes her dress down, shimmying it over her hips as his mouth moves up, up, up to behind her ear.

_Oh Gods, he is infuriatingly skilled at setting me alight with desire!_

Neither Harry nor Waymar had paid her as much affection in their dalliances, and with Jon's lips and hands on her, it were as if neither man ever existed. What was he doing to her? Her head was positively spinning, and she is still half dressed! _This ‘Lady O’ must not be of any consequence,_ an errant thought whispered at the back of her head, _but still… guard your heart Sansa. Do not give it away so willingly this time._

His hands are hurried again, helping her to remove her bustle. The room spins before her as Jon turns her in his arms, seemingly unable to bear a moment without his mouth on her. Sansa finds herself letting out a girlish giggle in answer to Jon’s needy groan as his lips move from her mouth down to the underside of her jaw. She tips her head back, liking the feel of his bristly whiskers on her neck.

“May I kiss you, Alayne?” he asks once more, making Sansa grin up at the ceiling with her eyes blissfully closed like a pampered cat being issued with affection. If she could purr, Sansa's sure that she would!

“You _are_ kissing me,” she answers.

Feeling Jon shake his head, Sansa’s brows knit as she tries to keep up with his meaning whilst being thoroughly distracted by Jon’s attentions and his body pressed against hers as he holds her tightly. Truly, she would be quite content stay in his arms like this for an eternity.

“No,” Jon straightens, looking her in the eye and licking at his slightly kiss-swollen lips, “I want to kiss you-“ he pauses to swallow down what Sansa suspects are nerves. She smiles sweetly at him until his knuckles brush against the front of her thigh, making her jump a little in surprise. Jon slowly drags his hand inward towards her sex, gesturing with a turn of his wrist until he is gently cupping her in a large warm hand over her bloomers. “-here.”

She blinked at him.

“If you don’t mind,” Jon added, removing his hand.

 _What kind of perversion is this?_ Sansa wondered, _surely he cannot mean it?_ “You want to…?” she could scarcely bring herself to say the words.

“Yes,” Jon nodded, “very much so.”

Sansa looked him over sceptically, her eyes dropping to his mouth. “Alright,” she agreed, still unsure. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Jon grinned. “Lay on the bed for me, Alayne.” His voice was low and husky again, commanding in a way that made her tummy do a little flip causing Sansa to temporarily forget the perverse act that Jon wished to perform.

Kneeling on the floor at the foot of the bed, Jon rid Sansa of her boots and then tugged her bloomers down her legs until she was bare from the waist down, bar her stockings. She resisted the urge to cover her mound with her hands, liking the way Jon’s eyes roamed her body as he pleased. “Part your legs for me, my love,” he near whispered.

“Are you sure you want to-“

“ _Positive.”_

 _Well then_ ; there was nothing else for it, Sansa supposes as she slowly opens herself up for this man like a flower blooming in spring, a bright flush blossoming all over her face too. Jon groans at the sight, his eyes intent on her indecently exposed intimate areas. Sansa bites her lip and only just manages to stop herself from snapping her legs together.

As if sensing her urge, Jon places his warm hands on her inner thighs, pushing slightly to open herself up even more. His hands began to glide up and down the exposed skin like he were trying to calm a skittish animal. "You're beautiful, " he tells her, sights still fixed on her sex. Soon, his mouth joined his hands, laying kisses to her splayed legs and gradually journeying closer to her centre.

Sansa jolts a little and covers her face with her hands when she felt the first peppering of soft kisses pressed to her womenhood. Jon begun to lick at her, groaning into her flesh as she felt his hot breath fanning over her and becoming quite excitable. It was a rather odd sensation; not unpleasant, but wholly unexpected.

“Oh God, Alayne,” he rumbled between her legs. Peering down, Sansa gasps at the obscene picture before her; Jon’s face buried between her thighs, his eyes closed as if in rapture – as if he were savouring her. His eyes opened once more and met with her own, making her cover her flaming face again. “Let me make it good for you, my love,” he said before going back to his perverse activity.

When Jon covers the knot of nerves that she sometimes sees to in private, the feel of his hot, wet mouth on her is something akin to a revelation; Sansa decides that this act may not be a perversion after all. In fact, she suspects it to be some kind of delightful magic.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude with a Robb PoV chapter...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finding it increasingly difficult to find the time to write these days, but i am really trying to keep the momentum going with this one so I hope that you guys do continue to enjoy it! Please let me know!

The Silk Street Coffee Rooms were much busier than Robb had expected. He scanned the scene of gentlemen reading the papers, playing chess, discussing matters of both importance and triviality and smoking cigars. One table in particular seemed most crowded, and once Robb had had a chance to survey the patrons, he realised that there was even a woman sat amongst them – a sight most unheard of. The gathering of men seemed to be fawning over the brunette, almost scrambling over one another to enter some discussion with her. Robb shook his head and realised that she must be someone of note to not only be welcomed into the establishment, but to be at the centre of such attention. She sat with her back to them, so he was unable to see her face. Never-the-less, he found himself admiring her light blue silk dress and the two ivory ostrich feathers blooming from her ringleted hair, as well as the diamond droplets swinging from her ears. Quite frankly, Robb thought her rather over-dressed for a Thursday morning at a coffee house; but then, he tends to avoid the city and large social gathering these days, so what does he know of it anyway?

“I’ll get us a drink shall I?” Mr Blackwater commented pulling Robb from his observations.

“We’re here for information, not to indulge.”

“Suit yourself,” Bronn sniffed, “but I’m having one.”

Robb watched as his man wandered over to the far side of the bar, took a seat on a high stool and begun speaking with the till maid. Sighing to himself and fidgeting with the brim of his top hat in his hands, Robb decided to strike up a conversation with the other member of staff behind the counter.

These past few weeks have been rather fruitless in terms of finding evidence of his beloved sister and this Harry fellow. They did, however, manage to trace the man back to an incident at this very establishment one week prior.

“I hear there was a brawl last week,” Robb probed after his dark drink had been poured, aromatic steam swirling up to meet his senses. The young male server smiled politely. “Do you happen to know what it was about?”

“No, Sir. I do not,” the lad answered lowering his gaze and bringing out a cloth to wipe down the counter.

“Are you sure?” Robb found himself persisting, unsatisfied. The boy nodded, making sure not to meet his eyes. “Or perhaps there is someone here who would be able to tell me more?”

“I don’t know anything about it, Sir. I’m sorry.”

Robb huffed and turned his head to seek out Bronn only to find the man with his head bent forward, smiling and whispering something to the till maid, who was giggling in turn. _Now is not the time for such things_ , Robb thought irritably. “It involved a Mr Harold Hardyng, did it not?” he tried once more.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” came an unexpectedly sweet and sultry voice to the side of him. Robb turned and the sight before him momentarily stole the breath from his very lungs. She was a beauty – a beauty indeed. And yet, the word did not do her justice. Her chestnut hair was thick and soft- looking, her deep brown eyes were inviting and mischievous. Robb’s own voice was caught on the slightest of devilish smirks upon her lips. The woman raised her brows at him, prompting Robb from his stupor. “Margaery Tyrell,” she offered.

“Ah, Robb, Robb Stark,” he flustered, bowing his head.

“Are you new in town, Robb Stark?”

“Not quite,” he replied, eyes flitting around the coffee house, realising that discussions had been ceased and that there were more than several pairs of eyes on them as he and Miss Tyrell spoke. “Although I do not visit often.”

The beauty before him smiled, her lips twitching as she cocked her head. “Did I overhear that you were trying to get some information?” The young lad behind the counter stilled his wiping, stood a little straighter and began fiddling with his cloth.

“Yes,” he paused, glancing sideways at the server. “I’m trying to track down a Mr Hardyng, do you know of him?”

Miss Tyrell’s pretty lips turned down, the feathers in her hair moving with her little head shake. “I know a great deal of people in this city, Mr Stark, but I’m not familiar with that name, no.”

“Lord,” Bronn corrected, coming up behind Margaery. Robb tried to convey his displeasure to the man at his lack of manners, but he seemed to have little to no care for it as he stood there grinning from ear to ear.

“Lord?”

Robb smiled a tight-lipped smile. “Yes, of Winterfell.”

“Well, well, Lord Stark,” Miss Tyrell beamed, “you _are_ a long way from home.” Robb found it altogether far too difficult not to return her smile with one of his own before the beauty took a step closer – closer than what would be considered appropriate – and proceeded to run her finger along the top of his hat as it lay there on the counter beside them. “Do you know, I don’t believe I’ve ever had a northman as a client?”

Robb swallowed which only seemed to amuse the woman. “A client?” His head was a little muggy from her proximity – or was it the thick aroma of coffee in the air? – and he could not think of for what purpose a woman should need to call a man her client. Especially not one as fine and quite obviously well-bred as Miss Tyrell. And then, quite suddenly, he came to the only conclusion that could possibly make sense. His eyes widened and he looked to Bronn over her shoulder. The man grinned back at him as if he had known all along that he was talking to a woman who sold pleasure. “Oh.”

Miss Tyrell let out a little giggle before she reached across and smoothed her hands down his lapels. The contact did rather odd things to his stomach and he can’t be sure that there aren’t goose-bumps appearing along his skin. Robb clears his throat, as if that could help him focus.

Without taking her eyes from his, Margaery’s voice switched from that of sweet and sultry to commanding and authoritative. Curiously, Robb would be hard pressed to be able to choose which tone he prefers over the other. “Tell him what you know.”

Confused at first, Robb’s brow furrows until the young man behind the counter begins to talk and he realises the Miss Tyrell had been addressing the lad.

“There-there _was_ a brawl,” he said, twiddling with his cloth nervously and gaining Robb’s attention once more, “and I overheard one of them shouting at a Mr Hardyng.”

“What was it over? Who was it with?” Robb asked.

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, I don’t know his name. But I’ve seen him in here before; he’s not what you would call of polite society, sir.”

“Go on,” Robb urged, eager to wring every last bit of information out of the boy.

“Well, from what I heard, there was a ruckus over some opera tickets.”

Bronn furrowed his brow and folded his arms on top of the counter. “Opera tickets?”

“Yes,” the boy nodded, “this Hardyng fellow seemed to be under the impression that the other gentleman had some tickets for him but there was a dispute over payment.”

Robb let out a sigh. This seemed to be a worryingly common theme with this Harold Hardyng.

_Oh, sweet sister, what have you gotten yourself into?_

“The scuffle was over before it had begun, but a few other patrons got involved, one of them shouted that he thought it odd that Hardyng was concerned with attending the opera when he still owed money to half a dozen of them.”

“Hmm,” Robb frowned in reflection. “Did he get the tickets, perchance?”

“He did,” the lad nodded, “he made off with them after promising almost half the people in the room that he would pay even more than what he owes once he has finalised the deal he’s working on.”

“Deal?” Robb asked.

The young man shrugged. “That’s what he said.”

As far as both Robb and Bronn were aware, Hardyng was not a man of business. In fact, they could find hardly a scrap of information on his background at all, only that his family once owned a small estate in The Vale, the property lost to them after a run of exceedingly bad luck at the gambling houses. The man’s kin were lost to him also – taken by the grave and making it all so much more difficult to track Harry down. It was this that led Robb to believe that his sister must have keenly felt something for the fellow, and that perhaps they wed in haste because she thought her brother would not allow her to make a match below her station.

“This makes no sense,” he spoke out aloud. “What deal would Hardyng be trying to settle? Is he trying to make a start in the business world?

Bronn snorted. “Seems like a terrible idea to me, after what we know about his relationship with money.”

“Business isn’t the only way to acquire a large sum of money, gentlemen,” Miss Tyrell interjected, reminding Robb of her presence all over again. He could not help but let his eyes fall to the curve of her chest before he wet his lips and wrenched his gaze back to her face.

“What do you mean?” he asked after gathering his wits.

Margaery smirked knowingly. “Well, I’ll bet my silk stockings that what your man is after, is some poor girl’s hefty dowry.”

For a few seconds all that Robb could envisage was the lovely women in front of him in nothing but her undergarments and hose… but with a shake of his head he came to his senses.

“A dowry?!”

_Oh, this doesn’t sound good. This doesn’t sound good at all!_


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon's Pov - a short chapter to keep the momentum going!
> 
> A BIG THANK YOU to all the people who are still reading and commenting! Honestly, the lovely comments really do spur me on to stick with this fic - so thank you!
> 
> Oh - and the 'Asshai Mermaid' is based on the Fiji Mermaid - a hoax consisting of the top half of a monkey sewn together with a fish tail - google it if you're not familiar... it's freaky looking!

“Do you think it’s real?” she asked him.

Jon tilted his head to better assess the grotesque before them. He frowned to himself. “It can’t be, surely?”

Alayne bat her fan and glanced around the exhibition room. “Well most people seem to think so.”

“I was expecting it to be… bigger… and more…” Jon trailed off and glanced down at the leaflet in his hands that had prompted them to visit King’s Landing’s Museum of Curiosities, his eyes skimming the illustration of the famed ‘Asshai Mermaid’. The advertisement for the exhibit had depicted a beautiful creature; half woman, half fish, enchanting and bare-breasted. What was displayed before them was a mummified specimen about the size of a small dog, monstrous and skeletal, bizarre and disturbing.

Alayne caught him looking from the leaflet to the exhibit once more. “Jon Targaryen,” she said in a mock accusatory tone, “were you expecting to view a creature, beautiful in all her nakedness today?”

Jon found that he had no control over his gaze as his eyes caught on to Alayne’s teasing smile. “Perhaps,” he conceded, “but not _here_.” He shifted closer, moving so that he slid behind her frame, leaning a whisper away from her ear and placing a hand at the dip of her waist. “Later, though…” he growled. He’s not sure why, but Alayne has a way of making his voice do that; turn low and husky. He thinks she likes it though, so he’s not about to stop.

Alayne’s fan stirred the air even faster, little wisps of her copper hair getting caught in its flurry. Jon felt a jolt of pleasure from being able to affect this beautiful woman in such a way. Her cheeks coloured a pretty shade of peachy-pink and she seemed to be holding her breath. His mind wandered to the other afternoon when he had put to good use the skills he’d learned at the whore house on his lovely Alayne. Ros and Bella had been correct; Jon had made his woman quite boneless with pleasure not once, not twice, but three times that afternoon. And then twice more when he’d decided to visit the following day. Jon could not hold back from thinking about how she’d writhed beneath his tongue, hips bucking up to seek him out, hands fisted in his hair as she sang out his name and shuddered from her climax. Tipping the velvet for Alayne had rapidly become his favoured past-time – even if he has, rather embarrassingly, spilled his seed whilst doing so.

Tightening his grip on her waist, Jon pulled her back into him, squashing her bustle between both their bodies. Completely lost in Alayne’s proximity, memories of lapping at her arousal and the knowledge that his newly arrived ‘letter from Lys’ was safely tucked away in his jacket pocket, Jon found that he had quite forgotten where he was for a moment or two. Almost leaning forward to kiss that tender spot below her earlobe, an elderly woman saw fit to interrupt his intensions by clearing her throat loudly and purposefully from the other side of the glass curio cabinet.

“Perhaps we should view the other exhibits,” Alayne offered, looking a little bashful now as she hurried away from him. Jon glanced at the older woman who simply accused him of being wholly inappropriate with nothing more than a sharp expression on her face.

Feeling like a young boy who had been reprimanded by his governess, Jon followed Alayne into the next room and wondered how soon he could possibly persuade her to leave for home so that he could hold her and kiss her without judgement.

The walls were lined with glass cabinets, all displaying various members of the animal kingdom, stuffed and posed to delight the viewing public. There was even an exhibit of anthropomorphised mice in little jackets, dresses and hats, arranged in a scene as if they were drinking tea and playing croquet. In the centre of the room was the monstrously huge skull of a dragon, the beasts having thankfully died out a collection of centuries ago. The slow clip, clip of Alayne’s boots against the polished parquet flooring being the only sound to meet Jon’s ears, he deduced that they must have the room to themselves.

Standing in front of a display of stuffed hummingbirds, Jon neither paid the exhibit any attention, nor put up the pretence of doing so, instead opting to let his eyes follow Alayne as she slowly made her way around the room, stopping every so often to read some morsel of information on the poor beasts behind the glass.

Miss Stone had foregone a hat today, for which Jon is grateful. He had quickly come to realise that allowing anything to shield his view if her beautifully rich auburn hair is quite frankly, a criminal offence. He already regrets purchasing a bonnet or two to match the dresses she had ordered on the account at Mordane’s. Alayne had seemed pleased though, and in truth, Jon would allow many a crime if only to make her happy.

 _Would it please her should I carve out my beating heart and offer it in place of trinkets and silks?_ Jon wondered before willing the thought away. He’s almost certain that Miss Stone holds some genuine affection for him beyond the terms laid out in their contract, but how deep that very affection has taken root? He is not sure. And if Jon starts getting ideas about grand declarations… _well_ … He’s not entirely convinced if she would sooner swoon or blanch at the notion. _She is paid to treat you thusly after all. She may well feel desire too, but desire is shallow compared to the well of true affection, of emotions as deep as love._

Clearing his throat and his oncoming swirl of doubting thoughts, Jon smiled as Alayne finally completed her circuit of the room, coming to stand by his side in front of the hummingbirds. “Beautiful,” she commented, not taking her eyes from the tiny feathered creatures, preserved for all to see.

“Yes,” Jon breathed in agreement, eyes still intend on the woman beside him.

She chuckled. “You’re not even looking at the exhibit, Mr Targaryen.”

“But what I _am_ looking at is beautiful indeed,” he replied, leaning towards her with his voice dipping low again. _What have you transformed me into, woman?_

She was trying to suppress a smile. He could see it. The apple of her cheek was blooming a delicious tint and he watched the colour creeping down her neck too. _Oh Gods_ , but she got his blood up.

Without warning, Jon moved in front of her, putting his hands on Alayne’s hips and directing them both towards the centre of the room, until he had her back pressing against the colossal jaw bone of the beastly dragon skull. “Jon?” she questioned before his mouth met hers and he was able to revel in the feel of Alayne Stone melting into him. “ _Jon!”_ she said in a quiet sort of squeal once her senses had come back around. Jon’s lips moved to that hallowed place below her ear that he has come to learn makes her squirm delightfully against him. “Someone will see!” she whispered, clutching at his shoulders as if she’d not meant to let him go.

“No one is here,” he replied, taking her lobe into his mouth and sucking lightly. Alayne shivered against him and tilted her head to allow more access, a response that only had him growing hard in his trousers.

“The-the dragon-“ she protested weakly, no doubt worried that they may damage the priceless artefact.

“What concern would I have for dragons when I have you in my arms?” Jon asked, meaning every word of it. “Later,” he husked into the expanse of her honeysuckle skin, “I want to taste you and watch you come apart again. It's all I seem to be able to think about.”

Alayne gripped him tighter. “I want you to have me... _completely_ ” she whispered, the words stirring him further and sounding sweeter than birdsong.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Her hands were in his hair now, bringing him back to her lips.

_Ah-hum!_

Both Alayne and Jon turned to see the older woman who had put a stop to their playfulness before. She was staring right at them with her hands primly clasped together in front of herself as her eyebrow arched its very own accusation at them both.

Jon stepped away from where he had Alayne pressed up against the giant skull, now mortifyingly revealing the extent of his shameless lustful ways in the form of the tenting in his trousers. He swiftly turned to shield himself.

“ _Well I never!”_ the thoroughly scandalised woman gasped.

Before he knew it, Jon felt a smooth, warm hand slipping into his as Alayne held her skirts and urged him to flee the scene with her. She burst into an infectious giggle that made him feel quite light and dizzy, like he were a lad of 10 again, sprinting as fast as he could across his father’s estate.

“ _Heathens_!” the woman called after them, which only served to turn Alayne’s laughter into a verifiable cackle as they quickened their pace, rushing through the museum together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite sure if the next chapter will be sansa or jon's pov...


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems that my updates are going to be shorter chapters I'm afraid! I'm just trying to keep my flow going and I have the next 6 chapters planned out, so hopefully can stick with it (because we all know what a flake I am)
> 
> The biggest of thank yous to all you wonderful people who keep commenting - I'm so, so happy that you are sticking with me on this one!!

“Alayne,” Jon murmured into their kiss as he pressed her back to the side of the bumping carriage. His girl giggled prettily as her soft hands cupped his face, fingers delicately playing with his scruff.

“Can you not bear to wait till we are home, Mr Targaryen?” she whispered, gently pushing him back to better see him, her fingertips still stoking his cheeks and jaw.

Jon smiled at her, enjoying her loving attentions. “I do apologise, my lady, but I find that I absolutely cannot bear to wait even a moment longer.”

Alayne raised a brow. “Perhaps you _are_ a heathen after all, sir!” she teased.

“I’ll show you a heathen!” Jon heard himself growl, kissing her fiercely, hungrily swallowing down her sweet laughter as his hands began to gather up her skirts.

“Jon!”

“Gods Alayne, you have turned me into quite the madman,” he confessed into the skin of her neck as his hand disappeared under the taffeta and cotton of her skirt and petticoat. He felt the silk of her stockings and then his palm travelled higher and higher, reaching the ruffled fabric of her bloomers. Alayne squirmed under his touch, her own hands now clutching at the lapels of his tailcoat.

“We’re nearly home,” she whispered, but Jon found he had no want to stop. The curtains were closed on the carriage, so they were shielded from anyone’s view, however, this made it difficult to ascertain exactly how far away from Sister Street they were.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Alayne toyed with her lip guiltily as she slowly shook her head. “No,” she answered quietly. “No, I don’t think that I do.”

“My lady is as much a heathen as me, it seems,” he grinned, his hand now able to cup Alayne’s mound once he’d slipped through the slit in her underthings.

“Jo- _ohh!”_

“There? My Love?” Jon asked as the pads of his fingers rubbed her pearl in slow circles. He would’ve liked to tease around the sensitive areas that he has come to know, however, time was of the essence right now. _Later, when I have her all to myself, then I’ll take my time to savour her._

Alayne nodded in answer to his question. “Yes, there,” she said, her eyes closed and her brows tugged together in concentration. Both her hands have now slipped from Jon’s jacket to clutching tightly to his arm before it disappears under her dress. Jon kissed her, immensely pleased with himself for being able to make his woman whimper and sigh and cant her hips, desperately grinding her sex against his hand.

It does not take long until Jon hears the _‘whoa,’_ of the coachman above them, bringing the horses to a stop. They must have been closer to home than Jon had realised. Alayne seems too lost in her pleasure to have registered the slowing of the carriage just yet, but once she does, her eyes open wide as their transport comes to a complete stop and they both hear the footman alight his seat to come and let them both out.

Jon turns his head to see the door handle press down, his heart thumping hard in his chest as his hand whips away from its rightful place between Alayne’s legs and grips ahold of the door handle before the blasted thing can be yanked open to reveal their shameless debauchery to the world beyond their carriage. They both breathe heavily, both staring at the inside of the closed carriage door.

“We have arrived, Mr Targaryen,” his man says from the other side.

Jon looks to Alayne. “Very well,” he calls out, “however, Miss Stone and I are just… _discussing_ something of vital importance. We shall alight in just one moment.” Alayne’s eyes widen even further. “You can be quiet for me, can’t you my love?” Jon whispers, moving his hand back under her skirts.

Alayne nods and then gives a tiny little yelp upon contact. “Your hand is cold from the brass handle,” she hisses.

“It’ll warm soon enough,” he responds, stroking her and feeling a certain amount of pride at already finding Alayne quite damp between her thighs.

Leaning forward, Jon presses sweet little kisses to her lips as her delicate hands wind around the back of his neck and his own continues its vital work under her skirts. “This is quite scandalous, you know,” Miss Stone breathes between kisses, but she does not make a single move to stop or discourage him. Jon slips two fingers easily into the tight heat of her womanhood as the pad of his thumb continues playing with her pearl. It takes him a little while to get the combined rhythm right of rubbing her button and massaging her upper wall, but if Alayne’s quickening breaths, sighs and the colour of her cheeks are any indicator, then he is doing something correctly.

 _“Oh Gods, Jon!”_ she sighs, making him place the forefinger from his free hand over his lips. A reminder to stay quiet.

“Are you close, Alayne?”

Mewling a little too loudly in response has him covering her mouth with his hand. Jon can feel her hot panted breath on his palm as he watches her, his own face mere inches from her own, her eyelids heavy with pleasure with those crystal blue eyes looking a little dazedly back at him.

“Does that feel good?” Jon asks, already knowing the answer if the way her body is reacting to him is any kind of indicator. “Do you like that, Alayne?” She nods, a tiny muffled whimper escaping her lips.

Her hips bucking up at him once Jon sped up his movements had him biting down on his lower lip and silently urging her on. He worked her, and he worked her until those eyes of hers seemed to roll back and her whole body shuddered. He could feel a pulsing sensation where his fingers continued their massage. Alayne was panting heavily from her nose when Jon removed his hand from her mouth, her frame slumped against the side of the carriage as he removed his _other_ hand from between her thighs.

“You,” she whispers, pausing as she catches her breath, one hand placed over her heart (a heart that Jon hope he made race), “are definitely a heathen, Jon Targaryen! There is no doubt about it.”

Jon grins in return, fishing his handkerchief from his breast pocket to wipe his hand. He would sorely like to place those fingers in his mouth and lick them clean, but he supposes he’s scandalised Miss Stone enough for one day. “Your hair,” he says, indicating with his head, “it’s a little askew.” It must’ve been from where she’d pressed and lolled her head against the side of the carriage. A few wisps were dampened with perspiration too, and sticking to her temple. Jon thought she looked glorious, but no doubt Alayne would prefer to be more presentable. “May I?” he asked, lifting a hand but pausing to wait for her answer.

“You may.”

Jon reached forward, smoothing back the damp strands and doing his best to see to the rest of her hair. Odd, that it was this action that seemed to make him blush, considering what his hand had been doing a few moments ago, but he felt some measure of pride that a lady such as Alayne would allow him to do this for her – and courtesan or no, Alayne Stone is very much a lady in Jon’s eyes.

He ceased his fussing with her hair with a final stroke of his hand against the cool, copper silk flowing from her head. _Gods,_ he loved her hair. He didn’t particularly want to stop touching it, but the footman will still be waiting on the other side of that door, and no doubt the coachman is eager to see to his horses. They can’t very well hide in here for hours just so Jon can toy with her locks.

They stared at one another for a moment and Jon felt suddenly a little out of his depth. He swallowed and forced himself to smile, although he’s sure his mouth merely gave a twitch and decided to call it a job well done.

 _‘I want you to have me, completely’_ , she had told him back at the museum, and heavens if he didn’t want that too… but his nerves were catching up with him now, now that the opportunity has truly arisen. Focussing on Alayne’s pleasure alone was one thing, but performing this act and not transforming into some lusty green-boy, spilling in his sheath the moment he enters her is another thing entirely.

 _You’re over-thinking,_ he tells himself, realising it’s something that Aegon accuses him of regularly. He tries to smile once more, this time finding his mouth much more compliant.

“Shall we?” Alayne asks, indicating to the door. She looked to be mostly composed again now, although there was still a little flush staining the centre of her chest.

Jon reaches over and pushes the thing open, avoiding the eyes of both the footman, the driver, and what appears to be two of his neighbours standing there as well. “We shall,” he answers before stepping down and turning to offer his hand and help his lady alight the carriage.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Right. LET'S GET JON'S CHERRY POPPED!

He’d studied the detailed instructions that had come with his package - _but still_ \- following through with them was a trifle embarrassing to say the least. Jon’s _‘letter from Lys’_ would need to be hydrated in water for a few hours to make it supple enough for use. Sequestering Ivy, and murmuring in a hushed tone that he is in need of a small bowl of warm water to be placed in Miss Stone’s room was bordering upon mortifying. The girl had bobbed her head and said she would get to the task straight away, but there was a look of knowing in her eye and a miniscule upward turn of the corners of her lips that told Jon the young lady was privy to his intensions. Perhaps he should not have flushed as he had. The girl is no fool and both her and her mother, the cook, were aware of his and Alayne’s arrangement, but Jon had felt his cheeks heat even as his face slipped into that of cool and unaffected.

Moments later, Ivy had brought them tea in the parlour as Alayne was looking over the latest chapters of a manuscript he had brought for her perusal – this tale was of a young man whose true birth as a prince was shrouded in secrecy and lies. The maid set down the silver tray and deposited the teapot, cups, saucers, sugar bowl and milk jug before turning to Jon with a quick, subtle nod, letting him know that she had performed her required task. Jon excused himself to go upstairs and place his new sheath in the water Ivy had provided. He saw that the girl had also left a larger basin of water too, with drying cloths and soap next to it.

Taking out his pocket-watch, Jon noted the time and sighed to himself, turning his face up to the ceiling, his eyes falling closed of their own accord. There was a whole host of different emotions warring within his chest. It felt as though a swarm of butterflies were tickling his insides with their excitable wings at the very same time as a herd of rhinos trampling him with doubtful stomps to his gut.

 _Why can I not be as Aegon is?_ He wonders to himself, then imagining his brother in his own place, the thought making his lip curl back in a snarl. His brother, though not without care for members of the fairer sex, would use Alayne for his own pleasure and that alone; a whore with one purpose. His Alayne is no whore, anyone could see that. _No_ , Aegon may travel through life with nary a concern for anything but his own amusement, but that is not how Jon would wish to live. That is not how Jon sees the world. That is not how Jon sees Alayne.

He eyed the skin now soaking in the bowl of warm water. Perhaps they should delay this act? He’s had his jollies back in the carriage, for seeing to Alayne’s pleasure gives him plenty of satisfaction of his own and he would not want her to think him-

“Your tea will grow cold,” came Alayne’s sweet, unexpected voice, her head peeking around the door frame.

Jon’s pulse jolted as he turned his back on the bowl and trying to shield it from her view, he may have even mumbled out a few sounds too, before he clamped his mouth shut.

Alayne smiled her lovely smile at him; the one that made him feel an ache all over his body. She neared him, looping her hand about his arm, preparing to pull him away with her before she peeked behind him, her brow rising at what she saw.

“We don’t have to… that is, there is no expectation, on my end,” Alayne merely flicked her crystal blue eyes to meet with his and said nothing more. “It is a precaution,” he added.

“A very good precaution,” she nodded her head, her lips curling upwards into a small smirk, guiding him by the arm to leave the room and return downstairs. “Come, I’d like to talk about this wonderful chapters you’ve brought me.”

As it turns out, Alayne is very skilled at pulling Jon’s mind away from his worries. If she is not distracting him with her mere presence, stoking the fire of lust within him; flames that would gladly lick across her opal skin, then her conversation is so engaging that he quite forgets any previous troubling doubts that may plague him.

“And of course, the chapter where his true parentage is revealed is just so laden with surprise and emotion,” Alayne pauses, her eyes quickly rescanning the text on the paper in her hand, her head shaking to herself as she searched for a better explanation of her feelings on the piece. “It is as if the words themselves are weighted down by the revelation. Like they themselves are heavy with Mr Snow’s pain…” she took a breath, about to say more, but glanced up to where Jon feels himself smiling widely at her. “Am I being silly again?”

“No,” Jon corrects. _When has she ever been silly?_ “No, I quite agree with you. It is a very emotional part of the story. What will Mr Snow do with this new information about himself, do you think?”

Alayne let the papers fall to her lap with a furrowed brow. She stared unseeing at the unlit fireplace as though the cold coals could whisper an answer to her. “I-“ she paused, cocking her head a little, listening to her own thoughts first to better understand them. “I don’t think he should pursue his royal lineage, unless for some reason he has to, further along in the story.” Alayne’s absentmindedly fingers the pages she is yet to read. “I think the care his adopted family has shown him should see him in good stead. It doesn’t matter that the man who was supposed to be his father lied to him, he did it to protect him. Family isn’t about close blood relations in the end, family is about-“ she looked up, the word lodge in her throat.

“Love?” Jon offered.

Alayne gave a sniff and lowered her gaze. “Yes, love.”

In all the time that Jon has spent with Alayne, she has avoided letting too many details about her life before coming into his employment slip; something that Jon dearly hopes she will loosen her grip on as time goes by. He would very much like to get to know her better; the real Alayne Stone.

“I sometimes feel as though there is no blood bond nor love between myself and my father,” he offers, knowing it better to present something personal of his own first, in order to bargain for something of hers. Besides that, he _wants_ her to know.

“Is your father a difficult man?”

“You could say that,” he answers, shifting in his chair, “he is affable but distant to me and far too preoccupied with his own legacy and family name.”

“But… you _are_ his legacy… you will carry on his family name,” Alayne stated, not understanding. Jon could sympathise, he hardly understood his own father himself most of the time.

“Yes, and he made sure of that too; paying a great deal of money to forge my certificate of birth to reflect the dates that he was happy with.”

“I don’t understand,” she shook her head.

Jon sighed. _If you wish her to open up her heart, you shall have to do the same._ “On our estate, Dragonstone, there is a rumour... a rather well founded rumour, surrounding my birth… that my father was unfaithful to his first wife with my mother, and that I was born just shy of wed-lock.” He leant forwards, his elbows resting on his knees, staring at the fabric of Alayne’s skirts as he thought of his mother and how she pretended not to hear the whispers. “They called my mother his whore mistress, and I his bastard.”

Glancing up at her, Jon saw Alayne with her pretty lips parted in surprise, her eyes wide and slightly shining. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered as if his words had winded her. Would she think of him differently now that she knew the truth? “That must’ve been very difficult.”

Letting out a long exhale and sitting back in his chair. “So there you have it. Not only the second son, but a bastard to boot. A lesser member of the Targaryen family by all accounts.”

“Don’t say that!” she snapped, “none of what you’ve said has made you a lesser man!” Alayne seemed a little irritated now at his display of self-loathing, and quite frankly, she looked rather glorious in her irritation. “You are a good man. A fine man,” she picked up her china cup and took a sip. “A fine man indeed. The circumstances of birth has nothing to do with it.” she stated with finality to herself.

Jon felt the urge to grin at her so valiantly and faithfully defending his honour. “Thank you, Alayne,” he said earnestly. “And you? Is there a strong bond between yourself and your family?”

Alayne fidgeted a bit at that, her fingers worrying the edges of the paper manuscript still in her hands. “My parents are no longer living,” she offers, her eyes cast downward.

“I’m so very sorry.”

Her lips form a brief hollow smile and she shakes her head, not seeming to want to offer him any more on the subject at present.

“Have you any other family?” Jon asks hopefully. _Please don’t be alone in this world. I would hate for you to have ever thought that so._

“I have a brother,” she tells him, her hands now fussing with the material of her dress.

“Are you close?”

“We were... before-“ Alayne stops herself and Jon can guess how that sentence was about to end.

“Does he know?”

Alayne shakes her head. “He lives in the north. He thinks I am happily married and visiting abroad.” She looks pained and agitated, clearly not comfortable with the subject at hand. Jon wishes it was not so. He wishes she were completely at ease with sharing the lowest pits of her pain, as well as the soaring heights of her happiness, and everything in between.

“You miss him,” he stated.

Alayne dropped her gaze, her eyes going glassy. “Yes,” she whispered.

“We can visit him, perhaps?”

“We?” she repeated, a small, amused smile donning her lips.

“Yes, ‘ _we’_ … I could masquerade as the lucky fellow who has taken your hand in marriage,” he offered. She laughed at that, sniffing away the previous tears that had threatened to fall.

“You would have to go by a different name.”

“That can be done,” Jon smiled, relieved to have nudged her past her pain. “I never cared for the name Targaryen anyway.”

“You would do that?”

“Of course. Anything to make you happy.”

“Anything?”

“Anything…within reason,” Jon said, smiling. Alayne laughed.

“Could we go to the opera?” she asked, “Red Keep Theatre is showing a production of ‘Jenny and the Dragonfly’ and I would so dearly like to see it.”

She was shifting the conversation away from that of her family, but Jon did not mind. He had no want to make her relive any unpleasant memories or remind her of the distance that must lay between herself and her brother. “That would be perfect,” he agreed, “my family have a box there. We can make use of it.”

What seemed like whiling away only a few minutes with much lighter conversation, had apparently turned to Jon and Alayne both spending the whole afternoon conversing and reading together. Jon found that time seemed to take on a greater speed when he was in her company. It wasn’t until Ivy entered the room, addressing them both and asking if she and her mother may be dismissed, that Jon realised the afternoon had galloped into the evening and that dusk was fading into night. It also reminded him of what was upstairs, soaking in a bowl of water, waiting to be used.

“Would you like to come upstairs?” Alayne asked once the servants had left.

He blinked and wet his lips a little nervously. “Would you like me to come upstairs?”

Giving him a look over her shoulder that told Jon he should already know the answer, Alayne said nothing and opened the parlour door before slipping out into the hallway and then up the stairs, the door left wide open like an invitation. Frankly, Jon felt as though he would’ve preferred her to actually answer him, but this is all she’s offering for now he supposes, so he follows, wondering with each step if the feeling in his gut is anxiety or excitement.

She has her back to him when he enters her room, her head bent down elongating the elegant line of her pale neck. “Can you loosen my corset for me, please?” she asks him. Jon does so with hands that do not seem to want to stay still. He’s seen her in her underthings, he’s had his head between her thighs for heaven’s sake! But the thought of what they were to do – what he was to do for the first ever time – had his pulse dancing demonically in his veins and his palms slick with sweat.

Alayne looked at him over her shoulder again, a sweet smile upon her lips that calmed his nerves somewhat. He was grateful for that – grateful for her. He bent forwards and pressed a single kiss to the slope of her bare shoulder before she moved behind her dressing screen, telling him to remove his clothes as she went.

Jon shucked his jacket, folding it over the armrest of her chair. He heard the soft _thwump_ of Alayne’s dress hitting the floor, half of the garment was then slung over the dressing screen. He eyed the blue of the material as his fingers worked the buttons of his waistcoat, it reminded him of the sky on a sunny day.

Once Jon was down to merely his drawers, his hands pausing on the cord, he watched as Alayne’s chemise and bloomers joined her dress over the screen and decided to hastily shove down his own underthings until he was standing there in her room completely nude.

Ducking under the bedclothes, Jon settled himself on Alayne’s mattress. The eiderdown pillows he’d had made for her now smelt of lavender as his head sunk into the softness.

Alayne emerged from behind the screen with not a stitch of clothing to her, with an arm slung across her breasts and a hand cupping her mound. Jon’s not so sure why she would do that, considering he has a rather intimate knowledge of her womanhood, but the sight inflamed him none-the-less. He wet his lips, his mouth feeling dry. “You look beautiful.” That seemed to please her a little and she dropped both arms by her sides. Jon’s mouth fell open, words coming out before he had a mind to stop them. “You’re absolutely perfect.”

Alayne’s cheeks deepened in colour, only slightly visible in the light from the oil lamp on the bedside table. Jon took a moment to look his fill, her breasts were neither large, nor small, but perky and tipped with dusky rose-coloured peaks. Her curves were that of a woman grown. He was particularly taken by the dip of her small waist and the flair of her hips. Her legs seemed to be longer than The River Rhoyne, and oh how he longed to travel up them!

Jon’s member was standing to full attention as he watched Alayne bite down on her lower lip and move to bring the bowl containing his now supple ‘letter from Lys’. She placed it down beside the bed and snuck in under the covers, being quick to press herself to his side. The feel of her soft, warm body up against his without any barrier between them was enough to make Jon’s heart beat a little faster.

“Kiss me please, Jon” she asked him sweetly, and he was happy to oblige.

Somehow, Alayne had managed to subtly shift them, their bodies moving so naturally that Jon had hardly noticed that he was only one small motion away from being completely on top of her as he pressed Alayne back into her pillow with his hungry kiss.

He had one hand busy stroking through the silk of her hair and the other at her ribs, the slightest of fractions below the under-curve of her breast. He swiped his thumb across her soft, womanly flesh, once, twice, not managing a third time before Alayne had taken a hold of his hand and re-positioned it firmly atop her breast, her teat poking at his palm. Jon groaned and devoured her with even more fervour as he gently tested, squeezed and kneaded at her chest. She seemed to enjoy his attentions, at least, he had hoped that she did - that is, until he may have pinched her nipple with more enthusiasm than was wanted or expected. Alayne squeaked and pushed at him to remove his mouth from hers.

“I’m sorry!”

“That’s alright,” she said, slightly out of breath, “I just wasn’t expecting you to do that.”

Jon looked down at this glorious creature beneath him. Her copper hair was spilling across the pillow, her cheeks were abloom with a delicate pink that wandered down to her chest and her lips were redder than they normally were. His eyes settled on her breasts as her chest rose and fell with her breathing. One nipple was decidedly rosier than the other. “May I…” he paused, hoping not to cause her offence, but everything he’d tried with her so far had been a success, so he plundered on, “may I kiss it better?”

Alayne barely nodded her assent before Jon had ducked down and gently kissed the skin just to the right of her left nipple. She wiggled beneath him. “Your whiskers tickle.” Jon glanced up at her through his lashes. She was watching him. “I liked it,” Alayne added.

Soon, he was dropping featherlight kisses all around her teats, and nuzzling at her soft curves as Alayne’s fingers repeatedly slipped through his hair like she were petting an affectionate animal. It wasn’t until he drew her nipple into his mouth and began suckling at her like a babe as his tongue flicked across her tight little buds that her stroking stilled, her fingers digging into his curls with an iron grip as though she wished to keep him attached to her for an eternity. Jon wouldn’t dream of objecting to that.

She shifted, encouraging him to move more directly on top of her, parting her legs to make room. Jon could feel the light thatch of hair upon her mound against him, she was almost unbelievably hot down there and a little damp too. Jon could not help but think of it as intoxicating and inviting. His pulse quickened until he could practically hear the thrum of rushing blood.

Alayne’s hands slipped from his hair to cup his cheeks, guiding him back up to her lips. “Your sheath,” she whispered, prompting him to get to his knees and reach over and fish the thing from the bowl.

Alayne shrieked and then giggled when the cooled water dripped onto her skin from his now supple sheath. “Sorry,” he said hastily, although he sincerity of his apology may have been lost on his grin as he watched her wiggle as she laughed.

With fumbling and unsteady hands, Jon encased himself and tied the ribbon at the base to secure it. Lowering himself back down atop Alayne, he pressed his mouth to hers once more. Her kisses tasted like spiced wine and honey, like promises and treasured gifts. He could feel Alayne’s hands slowly smoothing up and down his back, somehow both setting him aflame and calming his nerves simultaneously.

She shifted beneath him, his member now well and truly pressed against the heat between her thighs making him groan into their kiss. “Jon,” Alayne murmured between presses of mouth, “you can…” she did not complete her sentence, only subtly tilting her hips in invitation.

Jon is sure that he held his breath as he pushed himself into Alayne. The sensation was heady, dizzying and quite frankly, overwhelmingly pleasurable as he felt how snug and inviting she was. He let out a long slow exhale, followed by a groan when she wrapped her long legs about his waist. Was she _trying_ to completely unman him? He closed his eyes and began to count but had barely made it to six when he felt her lips peppering kisses to his cheek and jaw.

If just entering her felt good, Jon had quickly come to realise that moving within her was _heavenly,_ as he panted like a dog into the side of her neck, his face buried in her copper hair. Alayne held on to him tightly, her arms hooked under his and her hands splayed across his shoulder-blades. Jon briefly wondered if he was too heavy for her, but quickly reasoned that she would make him aware if that were the case.

He wanted to go faster, but was also a little fearful of doing so, sure that he would spill his seed in no time at all if he gave in to the urge. But then, the bedframe began to creak in time with his thrusts, the noise strangely enflaming him. He couldn’t’ve held back the snap of his hips if he had tried. Alayne gave a sharp inhale right beside his ear, her hands flexing against his back and that was all the encouragement Jon had needed to give in to his baser instincts, allowing his thrusts to pick up speed as the intense pleasure he felt continued to increase.

It did not take long at all for Jon to begin grunting, followed by a long and loud groan, his hips stuttering to a stop. “I’m so sorry,” he panted into her hair. She was stroking his back again. Up and down, up and down.

“Shhh,” Alayne murmured, kissing his cheek and squeezing his waist with her legs. She did not seem upset with him, even if he were a little disappointed in himself for getting carried away.

Wanting to stay exactly where he was, but both embarrassed by how quickly he had finished, and concerned that his weight really was crushing her now, Jon rolled off of her, missing the contact instantly. He slung an arm over his eyes as he continued to catch his breath.

The sudden unexpected feel of Alayne removing his sheath for him nearly made him jump a mile. She smiled sweetly at him as she untied the ribbon and then got up, moving towards the larger basin of water that Ivy had provided earlier.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jon flushed. She did not answer, only proceeded to wash his ‘letter from Lys’ so it could be reused. He did not allow his embarrassment to stop him from admiring her pert rear from this angle.

Alayne soon came back to crawl under the bedclothes, pressing herself closely to his side and laying her head on his shoulder. “Will you stay?” she asked.

Jon’s heart felt light as he wrapped his arms around her frame and squeezed her impossibly closer. “Of course I will.”

_I'll never want to leave._

***

Jon was whistling (of all things) when he entered the property he used when in town. He had lain with the woman he thinks he is falling in love with last night. She had asked him to stay, and he’d taken his mouth to her nether region twice during the night and once again for breakfast. Yes, Jon was feeling uncommonly, intolerably chipper this morning.

“A bit early for drinking, wouldn’t you say, Jon?”

Jon closed his eyes with a sigh before turning around to face the owner of the unexpected voice. If anyone could dampen his good mood it would be his father.

Rhaegar Targaryen stood tall and proud, his Targaryen white hair slicked back and his dazzling smile already at a devastating level of radiance even this early in the morning. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he stated, leaning on his cane.

“Yes, I have.” There was no point in denying it.

His father did not take it as an insult. “How is the business world treating you?” he asked, already moving on.

Jon sighed once more and sat down heavily in one of the armchairs by the parlour’s fireplace. This was obviously unavoidable and not the purpose of his visit. “It is going well. We have new manuscripts to look over regularly and we are sorting the wheat from the chaff.”

“Good, good,” Rhaegar murmured, uninterested as he seated himself opposite Jon. “And town, is it treating you well?”

“What do you want, father?”

Rhaegar appraised him then, obviously amused that Jon could see through the small talk and idle chit-chat. “Fine,” he conceded affably, “are you courting anyone?”

“Courting?” Jon’s brows rose.

“Yes, Jon. Something one generally does to secure themselves a wife.”

“I am aware of the concept, I just don’t wish to divulge-“

“So, you _are_ courting?” his father interrupted, his expression expectant. “Because you are at an age now where it is imperative, and Lord Stokeworth has two fine daughters of good breeding and is looking to-“

“There is no need for that.”

Rhaegar steepled his fingers and raised a brow at Jon. “But you are considering a marriage with a girl of good standing, are you not?”

Jon resisted the urge to swallow and managed to look his father in the eye as he replied. “I am.”

It was Rhaegar’s turn to sigh then. “If it does not work out-” he paused to stand, “-tell me. Stokeworth is a good name, it would be beneficial to the family if-“

“ _There is no need_ ,” Jon ground out between his teeth.

His father’s hand flew up as if in surrender. “Fine, fine.” He made his way to the door with a shake of his head. “It seems I have spoiled your good mood.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa's PoV
> 
> Here be angst...

Sansa hummed pleasantly to herself as she tipped the milk jug up and watched the liquid begin to cloud the tea in her cup. She added a lump of sugar, usually trying to avoid such sweet frivolity, but today she felt rather gay and jolly, so why should she not indulge? She had been taught at finishing school to never stir her tea in such a manner as to let the spoon clink against the bone china cup, but today she found that she quite liked the noise. A small smirk graced her lips as she revelled in her small rebellion. _Clink, clink, clink!_

They were approaching the throws of Autumn, the bright morning sun streaming through the panes of the large sash windows of her front parlour. Little particles danced within the beams of light. Sansa watched them as she sipped her tea, feeling content. Thinking of Jon's kiss, of Jon pressing her back into her mattress, of his hot breath fanning across her neck and collarbone.

She had been thinking it for a while now; how sweet it would be to hear Jon call her by her true name. Perhaps she should tell him? Explain her reasoning behind the decision. Her falsity has shielded him also. Sansa shudders to think how Robb would react to Jon should he discover them and their arrangement.

 _He need not know my family name, only my first._ She closes her eyes and imagines his voice wrapping itself around the word. _Sansa._ It had been so long since she'd heard the word aloud.

When she opens her eyes again, she finds that she is smiling to herself.

“A note for you, Miss Stone,” Ivy says at the threshold, bobbing up and down in a curtsy.

“Thank you, Ivy,” Sansa nodded, setting aside her tea and taking the note.

 

 

_My Dearest Miss Stone,_

_I have arranged for the use of the Targaryen box at this evening’s performance of Jenny and the Dragonfly. I hope this pleases you, dearheart. I shall call upon you at 6 for our evening at the Opera._

_Yours,_

_Jon Targaryen_

 

 

Sansa finds her fingers tracing Jon’s words across the parchment. Some letters bold and looping, others smaller and in close quarters with their brothers and sisters. _‘Dearheart’_ the pad of her forefinger ran across the ink, making its way back on itself to repeat the notion. _Dearheart, dearheart, dearheart._ He’d not used that endearment for her before. Sansa found that she quite liked it. She imagined it in his voice, whispered at the base of her neck, a shiver running down her spine at the thought. Quite absentmindedly, she began circling the loop of his ‘O’ on ‘Opera’. Round and round it went, her brows suddenly knitting together. She’d tried to tuck the bothersome thought away, not to ponder on it, not to tie herself in knots. But like the treacherous thing it is, her mind kept offering it up to her for consideration; _who is this ‘Lady O’ that Aegon mentioned Jon had visited? Why would he visit her?_

Sansa soon found herself quite vexed by her wandering mind that just refused to stay upon her previous cheerful path. She put aside the note, and instead began to think upon what she should wear for her evening at the theatre; one of the new dresses Jon had paid for, of course. She thought that the deep emerald one would make a fine choice, and Jon had gifted her a necklace with a single pear-shaped gem of the very same shade that would match rather nicely.

Soon finding herself rather giddy, Sansa’s reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Ivy’s hurried steps to answer.

“A Miss Tyr-“ her maid had started to say before the woman in question barged her way into the parlour.

“Yes, yes,” Margaery muttered, twirling herself into the room in a flurry of skirts and lace and an obscenely glittering necklace that was by far too showy for such an hour. “My dear!” she exclaimed, “it has been an eternity since we saw each other last!”

Sansa smirked as she bade her guest to sit and with a flick of her eyes, indicated to Ivy to bring more tea. “We saw each other not a fortnight ago.”

“And my heart has been rather melancholy ever since, my dearest Alayne!”

“You have a flair for the dramatic,” Sansa found herself chuckling as her friend grinned back at her.

“And you have a flair for making men fall in love with you,” Margaery countered, making Sansa’s heart jolt, “I’ve heard your employer is so taken with you that he’s bought half the trinkets in Jewel Street and plans to secure the other half post haste! Bravo, Alayne, _bravo_.”

“I do not believe that Jon is-“

Margaery cut her off with a roll of her eyes. “He loves _what you do for him_ then,” she conceded as Ivy reappeared with a tray of tea and biscuits. Sansa mulled over the words left in the air as her maid served her guest.

“Margaery,” Sansa ventured after they were now left alone, “you are well versed in the members of society here in town, are you not?”

The brunette took a sip of her tea before setting the cup back down on the saucer. “I’d like to think so, and yet even I recently made a very new acquaintance this past week at the coffee house. A northern fellow. Very handsome.”

Sansa’s cheeks flushed, and she found herself looking to her lap at the very brief mention of her homelands. She closed her eyes and willed the seasickness in her heart to fade. _Onwards, Sansa._ “But you know the majority of people of note?”

“Yes, my dear. Why? Are you looking for an introduction? I will oblige, if at all possible.”

Sansa pulled in a breath before letting it out again. “Do you know anyone who may go by ‘Lady O’?”

“Why, yes of course,” Margaery answered, her brows drawn together as if Sansa had asked her the silliest of questions in all existence. “’Lady O’ is the name my grandmother goes by as an Abbess.”

“An Abbess?” Sansa asked, nose wrinkled in confusion.

“Yes, a dame de maison, an aunt, a madam…” Sansa continued to blink at her friend until she relented, resorting to a painfully sharp bluntness, lashing at Sansa's nerves like the lick of a whip. “She runs a whore house, Alayne.”

***

It was another hour until Sansa was able to let her mask fall. An hour that she’d had to entertain Margaery Tyrell and pretend that there was not a whole hurricane of questions swirling around in her gut.

 _A whore house? But why-? Silly chit!_ She scolded herself, _why else do men visit such places? It is not for food and conversation! He went there to fuck._

_But he said he had not lain with any woman, and he was so sweet and unsure just the other night…_

The base of her neck began to ache with all her dizzying questions. She needed to get out of this house. Out of _his_ house.

Ivy had offered to accompany her when she donned her coat and bonnet, mentioning the need for some fresh air. “Nonsense,” she smiled overly brightly, trying her damnedest to sound jolly, “there is no need for that, Ivy. I shall just take a stroll. I shan’t be gone long.”

“But it is unseemly, Miss Stone. You will be alone and-“

Sansa cut off her maid with an inelegant snort. She had been all over town unchaperoned with an unmarried man of no relation. A small walk to the nearby park alone will do nothing to sully her... if that were at all possible anyway.

***

She could not feel the chill of the wrought iron bench beneath her, what with her thick layers of skirts, but she knew it must be cold. The wind’s bite at her cheeks was tempered by the autumnal sun, shining bright. Leaves of various shades were readying themselves to leap from their branches and become nothing but mulch, to be trodden on and no longer admired for their younger, greener selves.

The fresh air had not helped to clear her mind, she has come to realise. The fog of queries had followed her out here too. Why should she care what Jon Targaryen gets up to when he is not visiting her? He treats her well, does he not? He has not forced himself upon her – if she had not pursued a physical relationship with him, then perhaps her heart would be more guarded? Perhaps he would have simply gotten bored with her? Perhaps he would already be passing her up for the next man to employ her? And perhaps she would not even find it in herself to care because she just simply _cannot, should not, will not care about Jon Targaryen!_

“You’re crying,” a small boy with sandy blond hair said. She had not noticed him arrive to stand in front of her. She had not noticed that she was, indeed, crying either.

Sansa gave a watery smile as she wiped at her cheeks and sniffed away the tears that were waiting to fall. The boy offered her his hankie. It had a teddy bear embroidered into one corner and a sailing boat in another. She shook her head. “That’s quite alright. I am feeling much better, thank you.”

The boys’ lips twisted as he regarded her. He didn’t believe her. She didn’t believe her either. Sansa tried for a smile again. “Do you want a toffee?” he asked, his hand disappearing into his trouser pocket, bringing out a small white paper bag, half of which, was all screwed up. “Papa says I shouldn’t eat so many or I’ll be fat as him, but Mama loves him just as he is, so I don’t see why I should worry,” he shrugged.

Sansa laughed softly. She looked around, there were a few other people in the park; sat at benches or wandering in pairs. No one seemed to be looking for their son.

“Where are your parents?” she asked. “They must be searching for you.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “They’re in the dressmakers across the street. My aunt wants new gloves for tonight, and she wants them trimmed with expensive lace. Apparently, they will please the man she likes.” He sat down beside her, frowning at his little bag of sweets. “I don’t think she knows that men don’t care about gloves.”

“Samwell!” a woman called, one hand grasping her skirts as she walked hastily towards them, looking like she dearly wanted to sprint to her son, but knowing that she could do no such thing in public. A portly man was hurrying a good few paces behind her, his face becoming rather ruddy.

“Samwell!” the woman repeated as she neared. “What have I told you about running off like that?” Her son stayed quiet. The woman turned to Sansa. “I am so sorry if he’s been bothering you at all.”

“Not at all,” Sansa smiled, “we’ve been having a lovely talk about toffees.”

Samwell’s mother seemed surprised. “He doesn’t usually take to strangers.”

“She was sad,” Samwell offered beside her. Sansa felt a small glow of warmth in her chest. _Bless this darling boy_ , she thought, regarding him in his little blue woollen jacket with a wide sailor collar, big white buttons dotting the garment all the way down.

“You did a fine job of cheering me, Samwell.”

“What’s all this then?” the ruddy-faced large man puffed as he neared them all.

“Our son ran off to talk to this young lady about toffees.”

“Oh,” the portly man that Sansa guessed must be Samwell’s papa, “a vitally important activity I see then,” he quipped, still trying to catch his breath. “Sam Tarly,” he bowed, “and this is my wife Gilly, and son little Sam… or Samwell when he’s misbehaving.”

“Sansa Stark,” the words flew from her mouth before she’d had the chance to recall them. Her eyes widened, and her pulse jumped before she told herself to remain calm. When had she last used the name? It felt rust-riddled on her tongue. And yet she longed to use it more, she longed _hear it_ more, to be that girl again, back before… before… _everything._

“Well, thank you, Miss Stark, for entertaining our son. We don’t often find him talking to people; only his tin soldiers and sometimes the kitchen cat.”

Sansa smiled again. “He has been pleasant company for me.”

“Come, my love, let’s finish our shopping task with your sister,” the wife, Gilly said, rubbing an affectionate hand up and down the coat sleeve of her husband.

The Tarlys left soon after that, little Sam having made it a few paces before running back to Sansa and gifting her with a toffee that he left on top of her skirted knee. Sansa had laughed and thanked him, the dear, sweet boy.

She sighed as her gaze followed the man and wife leading their son away. Gilly rested her head on Sam’s shoulder as they walked slowly out of the park, little Sam scampering around, hiding behind tree trunks and picking up leaves of various colours and a pine cone or two. _That,_ she thought, _that is the very picture of love._ She imagined the same image with herself and Jon in the Tarly’s place, perhaps a son with inky hair like his father’s or maybe a daughter with auburn locks like herself.

_He visited a whore house._

She shook herself. She must simply not let her heart get carried away again for her head to only then follow suit with girlish dreams of marital bliss. She is a courtesan. She may as well be one of Jon’s whores, for that is what she has become when one boils the situation down to its bare-bones. He keeps her to fuck her. Anything more is simply toying with her heart and she must learn to harden it.

Sansa is not made for love. She is a fool to even entertain the idea.

Men; even good men, like Jon Targaryen, cannot contain themselves once they’ve had a bite of temptation’s apple. The sin is too sweet. And what did he owe her anyway? Their contract states that she shall lay with no other during her employment with him, but it contains nothing of the sort for Jon.

Standing from the cold park bench, Sansa starts to make her way back to Jon’s Sister Street property. He will be there to pick her up for the Opera before too long, and she will need to dress.

 _I shall wear one of the dresses Waymar bought me,_ she decided as her steps became more sure, her head more determined, _I knew where I was with Waymar. Waymar did not make me doubt him like this. Waymar did not make me question everything he’d ever said or done. Waymar did not make me love him._

_Shut up, fool!_

_I’ll wear a dress that Waymar bought me. Will Jon even notice?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah - Victorians liked to call madams 'Abbesses' who obviously worked in their 'nunneries' - are you sensing a theme here? How blasphemous! lol


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU to all those who are still reading and commenting! Honestly, it really, really helps with my motivation to continue! So thank you for that!
> 
> Just a short chapter tonight and then we switch back to Sansa's PoV during the opera performance :)

Jon stood from his seated position, feeling the need to actually _do_ something rather than sit there, quite uselessly. He patted at his tailcoat, the inner pocket concealing his latest gift for Alayne. He dearly hoped she would be pleased by his choice. Frowning at the brass clock on the mantle, Jon pulled out his pocket-watch to compare both piece’s time-keeping. They seemed in sync with one another. They were going to arrive at the theatre later than Jon had hoped.

Alayne never normally kept him waiting whenever he visited. Usually, she would be seated by the fireplace, reading or taking her refreshment. Occasionally, he’d seen her embroidering. Her face would transform into a wide, inviting smile as she stood to greet him. Jon enjoyed that very much.

But this evening Ivy had greeting him at the door as usual and told him that Miss Stone was not yet ready to receive him. It was a trifle silly of his heart to deflate a little at having to wait for her, but Jon can’t help but feel that moments spent without Alayne are moments lost.

Glancing at his pocket-watch once more, he very almost called for Ivy to check on Miss Stone. If they do not leave soon, he will be pressed for time to complete his required task. He needn’t have wasted his mind on the worry however, when the parlour door opened slowly and in stepped the woman who would steal the very breath from his lungs so effortlessly.

“Alayne,” he said on a whisper, his gaze slowly sweeping from hem to hair. She was an absolute vision of loveliness in her deep blue gown, trimmed with fine black lace. Her hair was scooped up in copper ringlets and there was a single blue winter rose nestled at the side of her head. Her neck was adorned with a choker of jet, the black stone still somehow managing to glitter. She wore black satin gloves to match, pulled right up and over her elbows. Jon wanted to peel them back down and chase the fabric with presses of his lips on the soft underside of her arm right down to the pulse in her wrist. He might even consider sucking a finger or two into his mouth. “You look beautiful,” he told her, eyeing her pale bare shoulders, suddenly feeling as though he did not wish to visit the opera after all, and finding the notion of keeping her here all for himself a most agreeable one.

She gave him a half smile of gratitude before Ivy scurried in to hand Alayne her fan. Jon’s eyes raked over her once more as she thanked the maid. He did not recognise the dress. “New gown?” he asked, pleased that she was making use of his account at Mordane’s.

“No,” Alayne answered simply, distracted by Ivy now wrapping a black fox fur stole around her shoulders. “Shall we go? I’ve kept you waiting for far too long.” That half smile was back on her lips again.

Jon frowned but indicated for her to lead the way out of the house and towards the carriage, ready and waiting. “I’ve not seen you wear that dress before,” he said once they were both seated.

“My previous benefactor had it made for me,” she said, “he liked me in this colour.”

 _Goodness_ , that had delivered a swift kick to his gut. They had never discussed the other men she had been employed by before, and quite frankly, Jon had preferred to pretend that they had not even existed – however many of them there may have been.

“Do you like it?” she asked.

 _No,_ Jon thought, _no, I bloody well don’t! Take the blasted thing off!_

A rabidly jealous beast was preparing to crawl up his gullet; a beast that he only just managed to swallow back down. “Yes… it’s lovely,” he said with a particularly forced blink of a smile before he turned away and glared out of the carriage window. _It’s just a dress,_ Jon told himself, letting out a long, slow exhale. He didn’t like to admit, but _‘just a dress’_ or not, it flared something childish within himself. _Do I not provide you with everything you should want or need?_ He wondered, scowling out of the window and listening to the horse’s hooves _clop, clop, clopping_ against the cobbles.

Deciding to let it lie (and perhaps to stop by Mordane’s on the morrow to order Alayne at least five new gowns), Jon painted on a smile, not wanting his sour mood to hinder her enjoyment of the evening. “The colour is rather beautiful,” he managed. “It suits you well.”

Her eyes searched his face for a time. What she was looking to find, he did not know. Jon redoubled his efforts to seem nonplussed. “I’ll be the envy of every man in the theatre with you on my arm, I’m sure.”

She smiled a tight smile that Jon had never seen on her lips before. The light from a passing gaslit street lamp caught on her jet choker as she turned her head away. Jon came to the sudden realisation that the jewels were not a gift of his either. He frowned and went back to glaring out of the window. He did not ask about her necklace, suddenly not wanting to know where it had come from.

She was silent as they sat there, being jostled gently by the bump and sway of their carriage. Jon wasn’t sure why the quiet between them bothered him this evening. They often sit in companionable silence and it normally leaves him with a feeling of contentedness. It dawned on him that perhaps she had read his mood and perceived his displeasure at her choice of dress. Not wanting to seem as though he were a possessive brute; declaring her his property who may only wear clothing from his own coin, Jon reached across and gathered up her hand, bringing the back of it to his lips to press a kiss there. Alayne turned, an adorably shocked look on her face. “You really do look lovely tonight,” he assured her softly.

Her eyes flit between his, trying to search for something once more - something that he hoped she found there. “Are-” Alayne started, her hand still within Jon’s and pressed to his mouth, “-are you looking forward to the performance?” she asked, although it seemed to Jon that her mind was elsewhere.

“Yes,” he admitted, lowering her hand, but keeping it hostage within his grasp. “Although I am not familiar with the premise of this particular opera.”

“It’s about love,” she told his lips before her gaze found his eyes once more, “and how complicated and messy it can be when other people are involved.” Jon nodded at that, not really caring for what they went to see, only that he attended with Alayne. His thumb was stroking back and forth across her knuckles and he did not let her go until they arrived at The Red Keep Theatre.

The grand foyer of the theatre was lavishly decorated with polished marble floors, one huge central crystal chandelier and several smaller ones. Gilded details ran along most surfaces, a musician was playing the piano beneath one of the staircases and the space was filled with the finest members from society that a production could hope for. As Jon and Alayne entered, they joined the throng of superbly dressed patrons, all gilded in their own way as they awaited the call to take to their seats. Ladies wore feathers and furs, their necks adorned with glittering diamonds and their dresses of beautiful silk and gorgeous lace. Alayne was by far the finest woman there, of course, but Jon supposes he was heavily biased in that opinion.

She smiled sweetly at him as she took his arm, but swiftly turned her face away, letting the large room of ladies and gentlemen serve as a distraction. Jon led them off to the side, down a corridor and to the foot of the sweeping staircase that would lead them up to where the Targaryen box is. A velvet rope was sectioning it off for the time being.

Asking her to wait there for him, Jon squeezed her hand as quickly and discreetly as he possibly could in the public place they found themselves. He dearly wanted to press a kiss to her soft cheek, but that would be wholly inappropriate, and considering their inability to avoid being caught at the museum the other day, Jon managed to refrain from acting further on his desires. Besides, Jon needed to find an usher to help him with his request, and should he begin to kiss Alayne in any shape or fashion, he very much doubts that he would be able to stop.

After a small while of politely bobbing and weaving through the other patrons, Jon saw an usher being sequestered into a small hallway by another gentleman, and, as he neared, he realised that he recognised the fellow.

“Can you please just tell me whether or not a Mr Harold Hardyng is attending the performance this evening?” said the man who Jon now remembers meeting at Mordane’s Dressmakers. ‘Stark’ his name was, Robb Stark.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m unable to do that. Perhaps if you spoke to my manager-“

“Then get your bloody manager!” Robb Stark snapped, making Jon’s eyebrows rise. Mr Stark turned to see him standing, awaiting his turn to talk to the usher. He gave him a tight smile and tugged on his waistcoat before running an agitated hand through his hair. “My apologies,” he dipped his head to both Jon and the usher after his outburst.

“Right away, sir,” the man said, scurrying away to presumably find his superior. Jon stopped him before he could get too far and handed over the velvet pouch that had been in his inner coat pocket the whole evening. He quietly asked the man to place it on one of the seats in the Targaryen box and to please be very careful with it.

“Another gift for your lady friend?” Robb Stark piped up once the usher left. Jon turned to see him smiling knowingly. He found it too difficult to deny himself the urge to return that smile.

“It is indeed.”

“I hope she likes it. Did she approve of the shawl? Yellow, you went for in the end, if I recall?”

Jon grinned to himself a little bashfully. “She liked it very well. Your… _sister?-”_  Jon tried to remember the relation Mr Stark had spoke of and was answered with a nod, “your sister has good taste,” Jon finished.

Robb Stark merely nodded, giving Jon a small smile before his attention was taken by the arriving manager. Jon inclined his head and took his leave.

“Jon!... Jon!” came a familiar voice over the murmur of conversation as he was on route back to his Alayne. “Jon!” the voice said again. Jon searched the crowd only to find none other than his very good friend Sam Tarly waving him over. He hadn’t seen the man in almost eight months, completely unaware that he and his family were in town.

“Sam,” Jon said warmly, greeting his friend with a wide smile. “What the devil are you doing here? I thought you’d be roosting back at Horn Hill during the colder months.”

Jon took a moment to regard his friend. He looked weary. Sam had recently taken up the mantle of _Lord_ Tarly when both his father and younger brother had been killed in a house fire, both Tarlys having stayed at a hunting lodge on the east side of their expansive estate. The whole lodge was now a pile of rubble and ash in a clearing amongst the thicket.

Sam was not meant to inherit, not after his choice of wife had angered his father so. Gilly had been a maid at Horn Hill, a girl of no society at all. Sam had told him of how she’d spoken softly to him after one of his father’s scolding’s, and, over time, they’d struck up a friendship which led Sam to teach Gilly to read, which led them both to grow quite attached to one another, which, in turn, led to Gilly conceiving little Sam…

Randyll Tarly had disinherited Sam from his estate and passed the honour onto his youngest son. But, then came their deaths, and the Court of Probate had deemed that having the Horn Hill estate fall to Sam would be the best course of action. sam had not really wanted to accept it, but it seems he had no choice.

“If it were up to me, I _would_ be back home,” Sam chuckled at his old friend. “But Talla is quite certain that she was to experience _all_ that the season has to offer, so here we are,” he grumbled.

“Is Talla out in society already?”

“Yes, she’s quite keen,” Sam rolled his eyes, making Jon laugh. “She’s the whole reason we’re here tonight. Some fellow that’s piqued her interest that she wants us to meet. And how about you?”

Ducking his head, Jon couldn’t contain his smile. “I’m attending with a… female acquaintance of mine.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Oh?” he asked, a teasing grin already on his face.

Jon nodded, happiness blooming in his chest as he bent his head forward a fraction and murmured to his oldest friend, “I think she could be the one.”

“Well it’s about bloody time!” Sam chortled, making Jon laugh along with him. “Where is she? Let me meet this woman who has you so taken with her! She must be quite remarkable.”

Before Jon had a chance to answer, Sam’s wife, Gilly appeared, followed by Sam’s younger sister, Talla and a dashing-looking blonde gentleman. “I’ve found her at last, she exclaimed. “Oh! Hello, Jon.”

“Gilly,” Jon nodded in greeting. He liked Gilly very much, she made his friend extremely happy, and, in turn, that made Jon very happy to see. “Talla,” he offered the same salutation.

“Sam!” Talla said giddily, clearly too excited to properly greet Jon. He didn’t mind, he’s known Talla for quite some years now, and he’s aware of how she gets when she’s overly eager about something or other. Besides, he simply must get back to his Alayne. “This is Harry,” she introduces the gentleman whose arm she’s squeezing rather tightly, “Harold Hardyng.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Sam offers his hand.

Jon introduces himself to the newcomer as quickly and politely as he possibly can, rather keen to leave and be by Miss Stone’s side again… until he remembers. “I believe Robb Stark is here looking for you this evening, Mr Hardyng. Quite what for though, I do not know.”

The dazzling smile on the man fades rather rapidly, his eyes making a sweep of the room and then darting quickly to Talla who is looking to him as though he was responsible for peppering the night sky with shining stars. Hardyng swallows and opens his mouth to speak.

“Stark?” Gilly interrupts, “wasn’t that delightful girl little Sam took to the other day a Stark?” she asks her husband.

Sam knits his brows as he searches his memory. “Yes, I think you’re right. Sansa, was it?”

“Yes, Sansa Stark,” Gilly declares, “perhaps they are related?”

They all look to Hardyng now, who, seems to have paled to a most sickly complexion. He opens his mouth and then closes it again whilst shaking his head. “I’m terribly sorry,” he says, “but I realise now that I am quite unwell. Please excuse me.” The man swiftly extracts himself from Talla’s grasp and near enough high-tails it out of the theatre.

“Sam!” his younger sister hisses. Jon’s half surprised that she hadn’t stomped her foot. “See what you’ve done now? You’ve scared him off!” She turns and runs after Mr Hardyng.

Jon looks to Sam with brows high on his head. “I’d keep an eye on that one if I were you,” he advised before leaving to return to his lady. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do leave a comment if you enjoyed reading! Your comments mean the world!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again - THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU to everyone who keeps commenting! It means a lot to me :)
> 
> Some Victorian slang -
> 
> Pinchcock = prostitute  
> Toffer = high class prostitute  
> Dollymop = part-time prostitute
> 
> Do you sense a theme here? Lol

Sansa stood there, alone with nothing but her thoughts as around her gentlemen and their ladies conversed pleasantly, no doubt eager to find their seats and enjoy the production. She found herself furrowing her brow at a wrinkle in the red carpet. She should smooth it down, less someone catch their foot and trip over themselves. Instead, Sansa swallowed and extended her fan, batting it in front of herself feeling irritated and unsure as to the primary source of her vexation. Is she upset more with Jon or herself?

He has visited a whore house. He may still be visiting that whore house, or other brothels; goodness knows how many toffers, pinchcocks or dollymops Jon has tupped? And now he has _her_. Is it all a game? Sansa cannot make head nor tail of it. He seems so… _genuine?_

 _Ah, but you’ve been stung before with that one, silly girl,_ she told herself. Men, it seemed, are all liars. Cruel, cruel liars. _Harden your heart. You’re just a stupid, stupid girl who never learns._

She huffed rather inelegantly and watched a group of couples laughing with one another.

 _Do you not lie too, Alayne?_ Sansa asked the warring voices in her head. _Jon does not know you, truly. He does not know Sansa Stark of Winterfell._

_He knows enough. Besides, that is for as much his protection as it is mine._

_I expect that is what he tells himself also… ‘Don’t tell her’. ‘Don’t let on’. Perhaps he means to shield me from a sick sexual depravity of his? Something only his whores know of? Maybe he has a thirst for the perverse that he suspects I could not quell?_

_And would you? Would you do anything this man asked, if it pleased him?_

She could see Jon making his way back to her and Sansa’s stomach decided to do somersaults. _Stop that!_ She tried to tell herself. Stop… _feeling_ so very much.

His smile – _his lovely, warm smile_ – is it false too? Her gut swooped as he neared, offering his arm.

“My apologies,” he said, “I just needed a moment to see to something.”

She nodded and forced a smile, her fan now working double-time. She wasn’t even particularly warm.

One of the theatre’s men arrived to guide them to the Targaryen box, opening the heavy velvet curtain and stepping aside for them to enter. Jon requested that some champagne be brought to them and the man scurried away to complete his task.

The auditorium below was a hubbub of people chatting and finding their seats. The musicians were tuning their instruments in the orchestral pit. Lights were low. The air was crisp with anticipation.

“Oh,” Sansa said, looking down at one of the chairs placed out for them. “Has someone left something behind?” There was a small midnight blue velvet pouch laying upon the seat.

“No,” Jon smirked, bouncing on the balls of his feet like an excited child. “I asked them to place it there. It’s for you.”

“Oh,” was all she could think to say as she tentatively scooped the gift up and sat in her seat. Jon perched on his beside her.

“I saw it, and thought of you.”

Sansa’s fingers brushed against a hard, cold object as she reached into the pouch to retrieve the item. In her hand lay a small pair of beautiful opera glasses of polished silver, ivory and ice blue gems. The detail around the body featured an intricately carved lattice of what looked like a little flurry of snowflakes, overlapping beautifully until one might think it a pattern of pretty lace. Every now and again, a twinkling stone of the palest of blues nestled itself at the centre of a snowflake. Sansa’s lips parted in surprise as she wondered at the thing.

“They’re aquamarine,” Jon said softly, “I haven’t the faintest idea how precious the stone is, but the colour reminded me of…” she looked up to him then and was curiously taken aback by their proximity, “…well, _your eyes_ ,” he finished before pointing to the glasses. “I thought you might like the snowflakes. It made me think of the North. We hardly ever see a fleck of snow in the South.”

“Thank you, Jon,” Sansa breathed, turning the beautiful gift over in her hands. “I will treasure them.” She meant it too. It wasn’t just their beauty, or no doubt the expense that Jon had spared for her, but that he saw them, _and he thought of her._ That she must have been at the forefront of his mind even during their parting.

Sansa frowned, still unable to quell the churning in her stomach.

‘Jenny and her Dragonfly’ opened with a scene featuring a jaunty and jolly aria, sung by one of the male leads. Sansa watched on as ‘Prince Duncan’ recounted how pleased he is with his standing in life, and that his new betrothal will surely bring happiness to the realm. The lyrics were in their traditional Braavosi, but Sansa found she was able to keep up.

She shuffled her rear forwards on her seat and made use of the beautiful glasses when her favourite scene began. The prince was about to meet and fall in love with his Jenny.

Sansa loved the opera. She loved anything where she can lose herself in a story that is not her own. They’re all better tales anyway. However, when the story progressed, and Prince Duncan proclaims to his father that he will break his betrothal and renounce his claim on the crown in favour of his love for Jenny, Sansa found herself rather overcome.

Was it the dim light of the auditorium? Or the sweet voice and melody of the song? Perhaps the emotion played out on the stage had moved her so? She could not deduce which had made her heart ache more keenly, though she suspects it rather has little to do with the performance.

Would anyone ever declare themselves so ardently for her as Duncan does his Jenny?

The roll of a single tear slowly wet her cheek. _You are nothing but a silly girl with notions of love,_ she told herself. _It’s why you love stories so. Life is not a love note. Life is not a song. They’re lies. Pretty, pretty lies._

Quite suddenly, one warm hand was placed atop hers. Jon’s skin was a little courser than her own, and his hand was larger too. She grasped it tight in both of hers as if clinging on to the daydreams of that naive little girl that should have died long ago. She never looked away from the stage, even when Jon squeezed her hand in return.

 _He visited a brothel,_ she reminded herself, _screwing her eyes shut. You began to think of him as yours, but he’s not. He’s not, he’s not, he’s not._

The aria ended to a round of applause and the theatre was illuminated as the curtain closed on the first act. Sansa let go of his hand and wiped at her damp cheeks.

“Alayne?” Jon asked softly beside her. She did not want to turn to see him. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I-“ her words lodged in her throat. Across the auditorium, in the box directly opposite them, sat the couple she had met at the park. _The Tarlys,_ she reminded herself as she took them in fully. Her blood ran cold. _They know my name._ “Actually, I-“

 _They know my name! They know my name!_ her mind screeched in its panic.

“I do feel a little unwell,” she turned to Jon now, forcing a small smile. His eyes widened as he took her in, no doubt she was now looking rather pale. “Could we… perhaps… go home?”

“Of course!” he hurried to alight his seat, already pushing aside the curtain to lead her from their box. “Shall I send for a physician? I have a good man who I have known for-“

“No, no,” Sansa shook her head, “I’ll be fine.”

“Are you quite sure? He is here tonight. I saw him and his family earlier. I could-“

Sansa felt like the air was becoming heavy around her. She needed to get out. “ _I said that_ _I’ll be just fine,”_ she snapped, yanking the curtain further out of her way and storming off at an irritated gait. Other patrons were staring, whispering behind their fans as she went, with Jon in close pursuit. Sansa felt as though her whole face had turned the shade of cranberry.

Jon soon caught up with her but stayed silent. He was quiet in the carriage ride home too, and yet she could feel his constant vigilance over her. It made her feel hot with exasperation.

Why does he have to be so caring? And he does care – she believes. He wants to treat her well, he wants her to enjoy time with him… but when he’s not with her…

If she asked him to stop visiting the whore house – for her bed to be the only that he seeks – would he agree? That would be rather a tall proposition from one’s kept woman. Even most wives are unable to keep their husbands from straying.

Perhaps if she knew the frequency in which he sates his appetite? Would she feel better for the information? It may have been but the once.

 _You should have asked Margaery to enquire,_ she thinks to herself.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” Jon asks as they arrive, and he walks her up the stone steps to the front door of the house. _His_ house.

Sansa forces a smile despite the thoughts buzzing in her head like a swarm of gnats. “No, it is nothing but a mild case of hysteria, I’m sure,” she dismisses with a shake of her head, knowing full-well that no man would want to further a conversation on the subject of womanly troubles.

Jon’s eyes widened a fraction and he gulped. She was correct. “Oh… Oh, well then,” he flustered, his cheeks colouring a rather lovely shade of embarrassment as he averted his gaze down to his shoes and fidgeted with his tailcoat.

“All I need is a few days rest,” Sansa assured him, already planning to visit with Margaery to beg askance of her help and advice.

“Very well,” he said, his eyes still full of concern, “but you will send for me should you need anything.”

Sansa nodded and ducked her head, about to turn and enter the property, but Jon was quick to gently hook a finger under her chin and force her eyes back on him. Her heart beat an unsettling rhythm against the cage of her ribs. “Anything, Alayne. I mean it. If I can help you in any way, say the word.”

_Do not visit the brothel. Do not lust for any other woman but me…. Don’t…Don’t break my heart._

“Thank you, Jon.”

It wasn’t until the door had closed and she was alone with the silence of the house, that Sansa realised she’d left the beautiful opera glasses back at the theatre. She does not know why it was that realisation that made her cry.

****

Two days later and Sansa sat in the parlour, stirring her tea rather absentmindedly, staring at the particles dancing in the morning sunlight. She caught the side of the cup with her spoon, making a _clink_ noise that jarred with her nerves. Huffing irritably, Sansa placed her spoon down and was about to call for Ivy, ready to complain about the level of dust in the room, when there was a knock at the door.

She waited for the familiar clip of Ivy’s boots against the polished wood floors, but the sound did not come. Her visitor knocked once more, making Sansa clench her teeth as she rose to see to her maid’s duties herself.

Opening the door, the first thing Sansa notices is a sleek head of silver-white hair, and at first, she thinks Jon’s brother Aegon has come to call. But no, this man has deeper lines around his narrowed violet eyes.

He removes his top hat, leans on his cane and smiles at her as though he means to strike up a friendship. “You must be my son’s whore. It is a pleasure to finally meet you, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, first off, I feel like I need to apologise for the near miss at the opera - nearly everyone in the comments were gearing up for the fall out of all these people being in the same place but then... womp-womp-womp :(
> 
> Don’t worry.... they’ll bump into each other... soon :)
> 
> And this passage about hysteria made me laugh - _Even though it was categorized as a disease, hysteria's symptoms were synonymous with normal functioning female sexuality.[1] Women considered to have it exhibited a wide array of symptoms, including faintness, nervousness, sexual desire, insomnia, fluid retention, heaviness in the abdomen, shortness of breath, irritability, loss of appetite for food or sex, and a "tendency to cause trouble"._
> 
> So don’t go ‘causing any trouble’ with your bothersome uteruses, girls!


	20. Chapter 20

“Why is it that you want these journals again, Jon?” Sam asked, routing through a rather unkempt looking bureau in his study at the Tarly’s King’s Landing property.

Jon flushed and swallowed. “One of the manuscripts features a character who suffers from the affliction, and I thought it best that I try to understand it a little more.” He didn’t like lying to his friend, but he would never betray Alayne’s confidence.

“I see,” Sam said, handing Jon a small pamphlet and two papers on Hysteria. Jon’s eyes skimmed the text. _Headaches, melancholy, feeling lower abdominal heaviness, muscle pains, faintness, nervousness, insomnia, fluid retention, shortness of breath, irritability, loss of appetite, and a tendency to cause trouble._

“That’s a long list of ailments,” he frowned. “What of the treatment?”

“Dr Swift recommends gentle pelvic massage given by a physician qualified in the procedure.”

“Pelvic massage?”

Jon’s friend flushed. “Yes… you know…” his fingers twitched in a small, jerky, circular motion, “r-rhythmic pressure to stimulate the… between the lady’s… until she…”

Jon felt his eyes widen and his lips part. He’s sure that his face must now match Sam’s in its hue. “Oh! I see…” He shook his head. There is no way on the God’s green earth that anyone will be ‘stimulating’ Alayne. Not unless it is Jon himself. “Could a non-practitioner administer this treatment?”

A questioning crease formed on Sam’s brow.

“I’d like to know for researching purposes, of course,” Jon added hastily, “is it plausible that a book character of non-medical profession could alleviate the symptoms using this method?”

“Good gracious, Jon,” Sam chuckled, “whatever kind of novel is this you’re entertaining?!”

“It is rather risqué,” Jon conceded, hoping that his friend would not suspect any falsity to his tone.

Sam looked up to the ceiling of his study, a gesture that Jon knew well. “Well now,” he began to ponder, “the issue with a non-practitioner would be that the average person would not know the best techniques. You have to get the intensity and pressure just right for the lady to able to achieve hysterical paroxysm.”

“Hysterical paroxysm,” Jon parroted back at his friend, his questioning brows high on his head.

“Yes. For the lady to… well… _you know!”_ Sam flustered. “Damn it, Jon. Is all this quite necessary?”

Jon tried and failed to supress a grin. “It is, I’m afraid.” Sam shook his head in mildly flustered dismay.

“Well, I suppose someone without training could administer the treatment. Though it is rather time consuming. Many a physician has been known to complain of cramps to the hand.” He leant forwards over his desk then, as if he meant to divulge a great secret. “I’ve heard that Lyseni lovers have much success using their tongues of all things!” he whispered.

Jon flushed and licked at his lips absentmindedly. “Really?”

Sam nodded and sat back in his desk chair. “Not that a doctor could be so intimate with a patient, mind you… _Gods!... Imagine!”_ he chuckled, shaking his head again. “Of course, your character might use something akin to Dr Macaura's Pulsocon.” Jon stayed quiet, hoping his friend would elaborate. He did not need to wait long. “A clever little hand crank piece of apparatus that uses vibration therapy.”

“I see…and…where might one get a hold of one of those Pulsocon machines?”

“Jon,” Sam said, turning to stuff a great number of unwanted papers back into the bureau, “isn’t this kind of research the responsibility of your writers?”

Nodding his head, Jon conceded that questioning his friend any further would raise too much suspicion. “Yes, quite.” He said, lacing his fingers together in front of himself and twiddling his thumbs in thought. “I should very much like to introduce you to someone. Perhaps you, Gilly, Talla and little Sam would like to dine with me and my guest sometime next week?”

“Your lady-friend, you mean?” Sam smirked.

Jon smiled, determined to not let his friend make him feel the slightest bit of embarrassment. “I do indeed. Her name is Alayne, Alayne Stone and she is… well, _she’s wonderful_ ,” he put simply, sure that there must be a thousand better ways to describe someone like Alayne.

“I would love to, but we are for the country this day,” Sam said with a regretful smile.

“You’re going back to Horn Hill? Already? I thought Talla was determined to see town for as long as possible?”

“Yes,” Sam sighed, “but it seems that Hardyng fellow has left the city and taken Talla’s interest in the place with him.”

***

Jon sent a note of well wishing to Alayne the following day. It was approaching the fifth day since he saw or heard from her last and he’s not sure how much longer he can keep his distance. She claimed she needed rest, and he did not want to encroach on that. But damn it, he missed her something rotten.

But then, one of Sam’s papers had explained that Hysteria can be brought on by stress and pressures of modern-day life and he would be loathe to add to them. He wanted to see her, and he wanted to do a great many things _with_ her, but if rest is what her health is in need of, then that is what he shall give.

Half wishing that he could claim a sickness brought on by stress himself, and beg off this afternoon’s activities, Jon takes off his top hat as he later climbs the front steps to his father’s townhouse. He’d been summonsed there this morning to take tea and sandwiches with his father and Jon has refused one too many invitations to be able to turn him down once again.

Two abrupt clangs of the ostentatiously elaborate brass knocker, fashioned into the shape of a dragon head, brought about the appearance of the butler to let him in. Jon would have preferred no one answer so that he could’ve hopped back in his carriage and gone to visit with Alayne instead.

_No. Stay away. Let her rest._

He flexed his hand as he was led towards the billiards room. He was late and had obviously missed the refreshments. His father’s butler led him past one of the parlours, two not-so-young women were in there, whispering to one another. He caught their eye and gave a stiff nod of acknowledgment before hurrying along to meet with his father. The women tried to supress their giggles.

“My dear boy, you are late,” Rhaegar Targaryen noted, a neutral smile adhered to his lips.

Seeing that his father was not alone as he sat in his smoking chair by the fireplace, cigar smouldering away, Jon bowed and took a seat. “My apologies, father.”

“Jon, I’d like for you to meet Lord Stokeworth.”

Now, why the devil did that name poke at Jon’s memory?

“His daughters were rather disappointed to not have your company for luncheon,” Rhaegar continued. Jon smiled while his mind caught up with the situation he found himself in.

“I am very sorry to have missed meeting them,” he directed to Lord Stokeworth, who simply nodded his head and took a sip of his brandy.

“Stokeworth and I have been discussing the possibility of-“

“No,” Jon interrupted his father’s words, the irritation in his veins as acidic as bile.

Rhaegar looked incredulous. “Excuse me?”

“We’ve agreed that you would not meddle, and that I would make my own match.”

Rhaegar simply smiled a smile that Jon mistrusted before he took a drag of his cigar and blew the plume of smoke into the air. “My dear boy,” he started, “I’m sure that once you meet Falyse and Lollys, that you’ll come to see-“

“Shouldn’t you be concentrating on Aegon and his marital status?” Jon argued. “As heir, his match is of much greater importance.”

“Yes, quite.” His father smiled that smile again. “Your brother and I have been in discussions. He understands his duty, and now it would be imperative that you also follow suit.”

“Father,” Jon looked to the man, trying to communicate just exactly how much following his plans would pain him. “No,” he shook his head, “I cannot.”

“They may have more years than most at court,” Lord Stokeworth piped up as he swilled his brandy around and around in his cut-crystal tumbler, “but both have very healthy dowries attached, boy. It’ll be a blunder to dismiss the notion.”

“I’m sorry, my Lord. Truly, I am. But it is not age that hinders my enthusiasm for the prospect, but love.”

“Love?” Lord Stokeworth asked, his cigar bobbing up and down as he spoke.

“Yes,” Jon affirmed, looking to his father and then back to their guest, “My heart already belongs to another and is beyond retrieval.”

Rhaegar scoffed. “You cannot believe that, Jon.”

“I believe it most ardently, because it is the truth.”

“No,” his father stubbed out his cigar and leant forwards, “the truth of the matter is that your little harlot has bewitched you into believing you are in love with her.” Jon’s lips parted. He took instant issue to Alayne being referred to as a harlot, but his mind was preoccupied with whether his arrangement with her had been sniffed out. “I tell you what, Jon,” Rhaegar continued, leaning back in his leather chair, “you keep your fun at my mother’s house – “ _He knows!_ “- but take the hand of one of the Stokeworth girls all the same.”

Jon’s mouth opened… then closed, only to open again, completely at a loss as to what to say.

“Plenty of fine gentlemen prescribe to a similar practice,” Lord Stokeworth nodded his agreement.

Jon was utterly aghast. “You would want that for your daughter?! An unfaithful husband?”

“I should like them to find husbands to begin with.”

Jon’s eyes fell to the polished mahogany table that lay between all three men, his mind reeling with the words just said. “No,” he whispered to himself before repeating the sentiment much clearer. “No. I cannot in good conscience do such a thing.”

“Jon-“ Rhaegar started.

“No!” he was practically shaking now as he turned to Stokeworth. “If, by some miracle of the graces, you and my father manage to finagle me into a union with one of your daughters, the marriage shall _never_ be consummated. You shall receive no grandchildren from me and I will not touch a woman while in love with another.” He looked to his father now. “I’ll not give her up. _I will not.”_

Rhaegar sighed. “I will concede that she is uncommonly beautiful, and quite clearly sharp of wit. But, as I explained to your whore, you _will_ need to marry and-“

The burning, seething irritation at hearing his father use that term for his Alayne made way for prickling fear. “You… you’ve spoken with her? With Alayne?”

“Yes, yes,” Rhaegar waved off his worries as if they were no more than a mild vexation, “I explained to Miss Stone that although not uncommon, a union between you both would be nothing short of a scandalous mistake, considering her lower standing in society.” Jon felt as though he couldn’t breathe or speak. “It was a pleasant exchange, actually,” his father continued, unaffected, “she was understanding. A very agreeable girl. I can see her appeal very well, my dear boy, but the fact of the matter remains that-“

“When did you visit her?” Jon interrupted, the panic in him rising now.

“I beg your pardon?”

_“When did you visit her? When did you talk to Alayne?!”_

“Three days past,” Rhaegar blinked at his son.

***

Taking the steps to the Sister Street property two at a time, Jon thumped on the door with his palm, his heart leaping up to his throat having been hammering against his chest the whole blasted carriage ride over. “Alayne!” He called out, banging on the door again. A few of his neighbours in the street turned to see the commotion, Jon had no care to address them.

“Mr Tar-“ Ivy said breathlessly, cut off when Jon barged past her into the house.

Alayne wasn’t in the parlour. “Alayne!” He called. He needed to speak to her. He needed to lay everything out at her feet; his feelings for her, his refusal of his father’s wretched plan to marry him off, and his intentions to make her his wife, for he shall have no other. _If she’ll have me at all._ _“Alayne!”_ he bellowed once more when there had been no answer from anywhere in the house.

“Where is she?” Jon asked, turning to Ivy, feeling positively wild.

“She’s gone, Mr Targaryen.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

Ivy dipped her head and clasped her hands in front of her pinafore. “I don’t rightly know.”

The pit of his stomach felt like terrible liquid fire. “Well, when will she return?”

“Begging your pardon sir, but I don’t think Miss Stone will be coming back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out this poster for Dr Swift's treatment of Hysteria by use of 'fine gentle massage'....  
> http://explorehistoricalif.com/ehc_legacy/hysteria.html
> 
> The Pulsocon Hand Crank Vibrator was real too!  
> http://www.vibratormuseum.com/handcrank/
> 
> Also.... sorry about the ending.... sort of...*barely contained evil cackling*


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left me really encouraging comments on this fic! They really mean a lot to me!

**JON**

_Dearest Jon,_

_I shall always wish the best for you, my dearheart. I am sorrowed that what we have should come to an end. I wish it weren’t so._

_Yours, always_

_Alayne_

Jon stared at the elegant script on the parchment. He checked the envelope once more to be sure that there was no other information left with Alayne’s farewell. He was not so lucky as to find a forwarding address. She had left in Ivy’s possession, a list of baubles from her vanity case that she wishes to gift to the maid and her mother as part of compensation for cutting their employment short. Alayne had marked the small inventory with her signature so as Jon would not suspect thievery on their parts.

She was clever and careful that way.

 _Not careful enough to wait to hear you out,_ Jon rued, screwing up Alayne’s note in his fist before cursing and smoothing it out again. She has such beautiful handwriting.

This is all his father’s fault. He could wring his neck for this! The pompous fool doesn’t know what he has cost Jon! He forced his mind from wandering down a vengeful path. That won’t help him find Alayne. That won’t bring her back to him. He began pacing in front of the fire place, his boots making dull thuds against the rug atop the hardwood floor.

With his knuckled pressed to his lips and chin and the note held in the grasp of his other hand, a thought came to Jon quite suddenly, causing him to flee the house most hastily.

***

“Miss Tyrell is with a guest,” the butler informed him as he stood on the steps outside The Golden Rose’s King’s Landing apartments.

Jon pushed his hand through his hair. He must look an absolute fright! “ _Please…_ is that guest Miss Stone?” He attempted to keep the tone of desperation from the timbre of his voice. He does not think he was successful.

“I cannot divulge,” the man said with a sniff, making to close the door on Jon, “now if you would be so kind-“

Jon blocked the servant’s intention by jamming his shoe forward over the threshold. “Tell me,” he hissed, “is she here?!”

Miss Tyrell’s man looked most affronted. “Madam is entertaining a gentleman, _sir_ ,” he spluttered. “Now if you wouldn’t mind-“

“Terribly sorry, but I’m afraid that I would mind,” Jon said as he barged past into the large foyer, “very much,” he finished, straightening his tailcoat. “I should like to speak with your mistress.”

The room retained its splendour, even though it was not dressed up with all the staging of a soiree like the previous time he had entered the property. There still seemed to be an enormous vase of yellow roses right in the centre of the space though.

“I-I beg your pardon!” the older man stuttered, “you-you can’t just-“

“Can’t I?” he tossed over his shoulder at the butler. “Miss Tyrell!” he bellowed, “ _Margaery Tyrell!”_

“ _Well I never!”_ the man huffed, totally aghast. Jon had no care for his sensibilities.

“ _Margaery Tyrell!”_ he shouted once more before a door to their right popped open to reveal the woman in question.

“What the devil is going on here?”

“I apologise, my lady, this gentleman was just leav-“

“Do you know where Alayne has gone?” Jon asked, speaking over the outraged butler.

A crease appeared between The Golden Rose’s perfect brows. That was not the reaction Jon had hoped for. “Alayne? Why?... _What have you done?”_ Her arms were crossed over her chest now as she stood there silently accusing him of some most terrible crime.

“I haven’t-“

“Is everything alright?” came the voice of a man stepping out from the room behind Miss Tyrell. Jon’s eyes widened. It was none other than Robb Stark. “Targaryen,” the man nodded once recognition flashed across his face.

“Stark,” Jon acknowledged before going straight back to his conversation with Miss Tyrell, the knots in his stomach twisting painfully with each passing minute. “I haven’t done anything!”

Miss Tyrell’s brows rose high on her head, clearly holding on to her suspicions. “You’ve hurt her in some way.”

“No!”

“Really? Then why would she flee?”

Jon could taste the plea coating his tongue. “It was all a misunderstanding!” he told her, shaking his head.

Robb Stark shifted uncomfortably behind Miss Tyrell. He cleared his throat, most likely about to excuse himself from a conversation with which he had no want or concern in hearing.

Margaery was quicker. “Mr Targaryen, I am here with a guest,” she gestured to Stark with her hand, “and so I do not have time to stand around and debate with you on how you have upset my dear friend, Alayne. Good day, sir.” She lifted her skirts and made to turn around, giving her butler a meaningful flick of her eyes.

Blast it all! He _needed_ her to make time for him. If he could only get Stark out of the way, then her reasoning for dismissing him would fall to dust. “Did Hardyng find you at the opera?” he called out just as he felt Miss Tyrell’s man curling a hand around his upper arm, ready to force him from the premises.

That piqued Stark's interest. “He was there?” The man demanded, taking three long strides past Miss Tyrell to stand before Jon.

“Yes. He is apparently an acquaintance of my good friends, the Tarlys.”

Robb Stark’s eyes flicked side-to-side erratically, as if decoding some great mystery. “The Tarlys?” he repeated. “Where do they live?” the man demanded, now walking past Jon, towards the door.

“King’s Gate.”

Robb Stark gave him a swift nod and then turned to bow to Miss Tyrell. “My apologies, my lady. I have urgent business to attend to.”

As he faced the door and made to leave, Jon called out to him once more. “Of course, the Tarlys won’t be at their King’s Landing residence now.”

“They won’t?” he asked, a puzzled look on his face.

Jon took out his pocket watch. “No,” he shook his head, “they’re done with town and are making for their home in The Reach. Horn Hill.” He glanced down at the clock-face in his hand. “I would imagine they are catching the 3 o’clock; the only train to that region for the day. If you hurry-“

The man was already practically out the door. Margaery’s bewildered butler stuttering after him; something about his hat and cane.

Jon turned back to Miss Tyrell with an expectant expression. She did not look pleased so Jon felt it best to plough on. “It was my father. He visited her and told her that I am to wed another-“ Margaery’s jaw ticked. Jon raised his hand slightly at the gesture, silently requesting that she hear the rest of his recount. “I refused. I will wed no one but Alayne. I… I love her. But she’s gone. She fled because thanks to my father, she thinks that in the face of a match for me, it would be best she left.”

Miss Tyrell stood there, stony faced, not allowing one molecule of her perfectly poised being to show anything but displeasure.

“Margaery, _please,”_ Jon is not above begging. Not for Alayne. “I didn’t get a chance to tell her.”

Her eyes flicked down the length of him and then up again. “You did her no harm?” she asks, wanting to make sure.

“No! I swear it! I love her!”

Her pretty mouth turns down in a frown of contemplation. “Has she taken all her belongings?”

Jon looked unfocused to the side, trying to recall. “N-no…I don’t think she has.”

“Well, you may find the answer to her whereabouts _if_ she sends for her things to be brought to her.”

Jon could kiss her. In fact, he did. A quick pleased peck to her mouth with his hands cradling her face.

She chuckled at that, at least.

“Yes! Yes! Why didn’t I think of that?!”

“Because you’re a fool in love,” she grinned.

 

**SANSA**

Sansa sat on the bench at King’s Landing Central, her autumn coat pulled up around her neck to stave off the chill that was gusting through the train station. The locomotive had pulled up with a hiss and passengers were alighting in front of her. A guard blew his whistle, the shrill sound piercing through the steam and babble of people going here and there. He shouted that no one is to board yet until some checks had been completed. Sansa stayed seated on the bench. After ten, and then fifteen minutes, it became clear that whatever the conductors were up to, it was no quick task. She wished she’d had a book with her, or one of Jon’s manuscripts. She’ll miss reading those very much… with him… among other things.

With a huff, Sansa routed in her large travel carpet bag; that and one brown leather trunk being the only items she used to gather her things before she left Sister Street for good. She’ll have to send for the rest of her things when she gets to her destination… wherever that may end up being. Pulling out the opera glasses Jon had gifted her just a few nights ago, she turned them around in her hands, smiling down at the little lacy snowflakes until the memory of how they had returned to her came to the front of her mind.

 _“Red Keep Theatre returned these to me from my box. I believe they belong to you, my dear,”_ Jon’s father, Rhaegar Targaryen had smiled. _“This town is smaller than you might think. Word gets around when a fine eligible young man such as my son is escorting a beauty here and there, and why, just yesterday, I ran into one of your neighbours at the gentleman’s club. He asked who the pretty filly is residing in one of the Targaryen homes… imagine my embarrassment in not being able to give an answer.”_ His smile had been coated in handsome charm that Sansa knew must have sent many a girl’s heart all a-flutter back when the gentleman was courting. There was something about his smiles that she didn’t quite like though.

She had been right not to trust that smile. That smile had delivered the fatal blow when Rhaegar Targaryen had told her that if she is to stay in Jon’s employment then they shall soon have to learn to be much more discreet. For he is to wed.

Echoes of how her heart had stung fluttered around her chest at the mere memory of the conversation. _Not again._ She couldn’t bear for this to happen _again_ – except this time, so, _so_ much worse. Waymar had meant no more to her than his means of keeping her and his pleasant company. Jon means… _had meant_ … infinitely more. If he were to one day come to call on her, only to explain that he cannot carry on as they were, due to a fondness for his wife (or simply because the infidelity was riddling his conscience), why then, Sansa’s not entirely sure how she might recover from that.

_Silly fool! You muddled your heart with your livelihood and where did it get you?!_

_Get out! Get out!_ Every frayed nerve had hissed at her as she tossed and turned in the bed Jon had provided for her, her legs wrapping around the cotton sheets that he’d sought out for her too. They were weighing her down, light as they were, and she could barely stand it. The very next morning she’d made her decision and bade a grateful farewell to Ivy and Nora. Quite where she was proposing to travel to, she was not sure; she was only convinced of one thing. She cannot stay in King’s Landing where she will see Jon in every dark head of hair and hear his voice in every passing murmur.

She wrote him a note of farewell; short and sweet and not nearly as expressive as she should like. But to pour her heart out on parchment would be folly, and so with the close of the envelope, Sansa lay the part of her heart that belongs to him in there too, nestled between the looping letters of ink. She wonders if part of him will know?

And now she finds herself at the station with the two small items of luggage and no destination fixed within her mind. The train in front of her is set for the east coast. She could set sail across the narrow sea and possibly make her way to Myr, like the lies she spun to Robb. The steam from the locomotive on the platform behind her hissed as it came to a stop for passengers to board. She’s not sure on where that one might be headed.

“You look sad again,” a voice said from in front of her. Sansa looked up and then felt the bloom of a smile across her lips.

“Samwell. How nice to see you again.”

The small boy frowned. “I’m only called Samwell when I’ve been naughty. You can call me little Sam.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, _little Sam,”_ Sansa grinned, tucking the opera glasses back away into her bag.

“I don’t have any toffies today,” the little boy lamented. “Otherwise I could cheer you up again.”

“You cheer me by just being you, Sam.” She meant it. The dear, sweet boy certainly had a way of lifting the heaviness in her chest.

“He’s not pestering you again, is he Miss Stark?” the boy’s father, Mr Tarly said as he walked up to them with what looked to be the boy’s coat draped over his arm.

Sansa took a deep breath at the pleasant tune of her true name upon someone’s lips. She smiled and shook her head. “No, not at all, Mr Tarly. We are firm friends, of course.” Her eyes slid to little Sam in front of her. The boy seemed very pleased with her words.

Mr Tarly grinned as he looked at them both. He had kind eyes, Sansa decided. “Are you for the 3 o’clock headed west?” he asked, pointing to the train behind her. “If so, then you are more than welcome to share our carriage. I’m sure little Sam would love to have someone to talk to.”

Sansa’s not sure what compelled her, but before she knew it, she was mentally letting go of dreams of the coast and smiling at the thought of all that lush green of the west. She made to pick up her luggage, only for Sam Tarly to shoo her intentions away and carry them for her. Little Sam curled his small hand into hers as they boarded the train.

Sam’s wife, Gilly seemed pleased to recognise her when they stepped into the booth. She greeted her warmly as Sam stowed her luggage in the overhead racking. There was a young girl sat with them who was later introduced as Sam’s sister, Talla. Talla was quiet, and seemed a little melancholy to be leaving town. She leant her head against the cold window and drew invisible patterns against the glass. Sansa thought it best not to pry. Young girl’s temperaments can fluctuate tremendously – she remembers it well.

Her stomach lurched at the thought of her headstrong and foolhardy girlish dreams of love. She hopes that it is nothing of the sort that ails poor Talla.

Sam decided to get his tin soldiers out and began recounting to her some of the great battles that he’d read about in his books. Her smile broadened. He was a dear little chap.

Quite suddenly, there was a commotion nearby, with raised voices and noises of a scuffle. Sam stood and leant out of their booth into the narrow walkway of the carriage.

“What’s going on, my love?” Gilly asked.

“Someone seems to have boarded without the intention of paying,” Sam explained. He kept a vigil for half a minute longer before seating himself back down with a smile. “Whatever it was, it all seems to be sorted now. The conductor has escorted the fellow off the train.”

With that, the whistle blew, and the slow chug of the steam locomotive hissed into life before they began to move, headed west.

 _A new start,_ Sansa thought as she promised herself not to listen to her heart any longer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shall I just rename this fic 'A Catalogue of Near-Misses?' lol


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> multiple PoVs for this chapter - Gilly, then Robb and finally Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all those still reading this and commenting! :)

GILLY

Gilly looked to her sister-in-law and sighed. The poor thing. Talla hadn’t uttered but one word on their journey so far, far too consumed with her bruised heart. Harrold Hardyng leaving town had been a bit of a shock for her, and the young girl was still trying to discern whether or not it was a slight against her. Gilly was no help in that matter – she had not ‘come out’ into society when she were young. All she had done was fall in love with a lord’s son. And here she is; a former maid, now lady of a great manor. Who’d have thought?!

She does lament that she is unable to help her good-sister in these matters however. Sam doesn’t seem to understand the issue. He’d said that the two weren’t even formally courting, but, by the way Talla’s cheeks had burned a little rosier than usual at his statement, Gilly suspects there may be something going on between the pair. She hopes it was not more than stolen kisses in hidden alcoves at that ball or this.

Their private train carriage was filled with nothing but the low murmurings of little Sam talking to Miss Stark, and her husband’s soft snores as he sits beside her, his head wobbling back and forth with the sway of the train as his mouth hangs open to the air. Gilly grins and reaches over to gently close Sam’s gaping maw with a push to the underside of his chin. Looking back to Talla, who is so sullenly staring at the landscape rushing by, Gilly hopes that whatever this tribulation with Mr Hardyng is, that it passes soon enough. She’s a good girl, even if her head prefers the company of clouds, and she deserves to have a piece of what Gilly has found with her Sam.

Her gaze finds Miss Stark next. There’s a story behind those bright blue eyes, she can tell. She’d like to think it would be a cheerful story, but those kinds are hard to come by. There’s something in the curve of her smiles she gives little Sam, and the muted twinkle in her eye; she’s running from something.

Sam had commented that Miss Stark would be riding with them and would carry on the service until Oldtown. When Gilly asked if she were visiting family there, the young girl had given her a polite smile and a shake of the head. She stated simply that she was looking for a new start and that she had no family to speak of.

That had tugged at the edges of Gilly’s heart. To be travelling to somewhere entirely new? Unaccompanied? And to be so alone in the world? She swallowed at the thought and glance briefly back to her sleeping husband.

The unexpected and rarely heard noise of her son’s laughter drew her back to Miss Stark. The woman had her head bent towards little Sam as if they were whispering conspiratorially. She was holding aloft one of his little tin soldiers, and from what snippets of murmured conversation that Gilly could hear, was telling him of some make-believe story about the little tin man’s life before joining the army that involved playing snowball fights with his family. Little Sam’s face was a picture, caught up in this fanciful tale Miss Sansa Stark was weaving for him using his beloved and oft played with toys. Gilly had never seen anyone have such an effect on her boy.

It was on the very tip of her tongue to invite the dear girl to come stay with them at Horn Hill, knowing that little Sam would most likely enjoy more of her company past this train ride. But Talla then let out a painful sigh beside her, and Gilly was brought back to her initial worries to fret over.

Gilly leant over and placed a gentle hand atop her good-sister’s. “I’m sure he’ll write,” she offered, hoping her smile was warm enough that Talla might see some comfort in the gesture. Miss Stark lifted her head to observe them, but then averted her eyes once Gilly looked back to her. That would not do. “Young love always finds it’s little misfortunes before all is well. Wouldn’t you say so, Miss Stark?”

The woman forced an answering smile before looking to Talla and offering one of a much more genuine ilk. “Indeed,” she agreed, nodding slowly and lowering the little tin soldier in her hand. “Although,” she continued, “I should think it is of upmost importance to guard one’s heart against these misfortunes.” Miss Stark stared in unfocussed thought. “It is a man’s world that we live in, and women, by nature, are much too tender-hearted for it. You must take care of that tenderness. Keep it for yourself and yourself alone.”

 _Gracious. She has felt a pain of the heart most keenly,_ Gilly thinks to herself. She looked to Sam, still asleep beside her, remembering when his lord father was alive and had forbidden him to take Gilly as a wife. That had been the most wretched period within her memory. But then Sam had defied his father’s wishes and answered the call of their love regardless.

“I should like to think that that tenderness should be shared with the right people. Those that you care for,” Gilly said, “otherwise one might risk turning too hardened, like stone. Wouldn’t you say so?”

Miss Stark’s lips gave Gilly that smile again. Her eyes did not. “Yes, of course.”

It seemed a change in conversation was needed. “You have a wonderful way with children, Miss Stark.” The redhead’s answering beaming grin hid no falsity as she thanked her for the compliment. “Are you a governess?” Gilly may not ordinarily ask as Sam has told her it would be impolite to assume a woman of higher society would even consider having a career beyond finding a husband and birthing his babes – of course, to Gilly, a former maid, a woman with a career is to be seen as a necessity and no great sin. But Miss Stark _is_ travelling alone, with no family to speak of, nor any fixed agenda it seems. The circumstances are rather odd, and Gilly can’t help but think she’s moving on to pastures new to seek out work.

Sansa Stark bit her lip and shook her head. “No, I have no training in that respect.”

“Oh, well I think you’d do marvellously!” Gilly praised. “Little Sam already loves you dearly, and he had such a terrible time with his previous governess.” She saw her son stiffen a little at the mention of that wretched woman who had beaten her little boy for muddling up his letters.

“I think there’s rather more to it than being good friends,” Miss Stark commented, giving little Sam a smile that melted away the boy’s horrid memories.

“Perhaps,” Gilly conceded. “Would you like to try?”

“Try?”

“Yes.” Gilly leant forward, trying not to seem overeager. “Instead of travelling on to Oldtown, how about you alight with us to Horn Hill, my husband’s estate? You are very welcome to stay in the gatehouse cottage and see how you go with helping my son with his spelling and his numbers. If it does not suit, then at least you’ve tried.”

“Please, Miss Sansa!” Little Sam bounced in his seat beside the woman.

“I…” she opened her mouth, her blue eyes darting from Gilly, to little Sam and then back again. “That would be most kind of you, Lady Tarly,” she smiled.

“Oh nonsense,” Gilly reached over and took Miss Stark’s gloved hand in hers. “Call me Gilly.”

Just then, her husband awoke himself with a particularly loud sleepy snort. He blinked back his slumber and hid a yawn behind his fist. “Are we home yet?”

“Not yet,” Gilly grinned at him, “and we’re taking Miss Stark with us.”

Sam smacked his lips together and let his head fall back against the headrest again as his eyes slid shut. “Excellent. Excellent,” he murmured already half asleep.

***

ROBB

After being wrestled from the train yesterday, Robb had thought his luck couldn’t have gotten any more rotten. He was wrong. Today’s trains headed west had been cancelled due to repair works on the line.

“Should we send a telegram?” he pondered to his man, Bronn as they made their way to where a public coach was taking passengers to the Reach region.

Bronn scratched at his chin. “You say Hardyng fled the city as soon as this Targaryen fellow mentioned you to him?”

“Yes.”

“Then I say best not alert anyone. If he’s with these Tarly folks, and he catches wind that you’re on his trail, he’ll hightail it out of there as faster than you can blink.”

“You’re most likely right,” Robb sighed as he paid the coachman for two tickets west and climbed into the carriage. He could be travelling under the steam of his own horses, but they had already wasted so much time grousing with the train conductor this morning that as soon as he’d spotted the coach, he found he could no longer wait to get going.

After four hours on the Rose Road, Robb’s bad luck would not leave him be. One of the coach’s horses went suddenly lame, the coachman informing the passengers that the animal was suffering from a hoof abscess.

“Don’t you check your animals over before making a journey, damn it?!” Robb had hissed, causing more of a scene than he was used to doing. He had no care for propriety today, however – he had somewhere to be and was now being told that they were to be detoured to a nearby village to find a fresh horse.

Two more hours and they’d reached The Hunter Inn, an establishment very close to their destination. They would need to change carriages, for this was as near to the Tarly’s estate of Horn Hill that their coach was taking them.

The establishment was of an acceptable standard. There weren’t any drunkards littering the drinking rooms, and the barkeep was rather friendly. Still, it did not seem the place for a young girl of seemingly good breeding to be on her own, Robb thought as he eyed the brunette sat at a table in the corner, looking around as if expecting company. Her clothes were too fine to be a tavern wench, and one might think that a female guest boarding at the inn would not be seated alone.

He found himself turning away. It was not his concern, after all, and he is here for one purpose – to get to Horn Hill, Harrold Hardyng, and hopefully his dearest Sansa. He did not have to fret for overly long, however, when he heard a delighted squeal and turned to see the young girl leap from her chair and into the arms of a gentleman who had just entered the inn. Robb averted his gaze from the inelegant display.

Soon, they were offered use of the Inn’s carriage to the manor, with only a small fee in compensation.

Horn Hill was surrounded by a palette of lush green, like most of the region, Robb has come to find. The one horse carriage clip-clopped up the gravel path and past a beautiful little gatehouse cottage on his right. The manor itself was large in size, but dwarfed by his own Winterfell. Robb sometimes wished for a much smaller estate to manage. Something of this size would be perfect.

It was late afternoon by the time they climbed from the carriage, the sky already beginning to mute its hues and prepare for dusk. Bronn asked the driver to stay should there be cause for them to return to the inn. Robb hoped that it would not be needed.

“Robb Stark to see Lord, Lady and Miss Talla Tarly,” He told the butler who’d opened the large door.

“Lord Tarly and his wife are not yet arrived from their trip into the village today,” the man told him down his nose.

“And Miss Talla Tarly?”

The butler twitched one corner of his mouth. “With what would your visit be concerning, Mr-?”

“ _Lord_ ,” Bronn corrected the man, making him swallow down his own arrogance. “Lord Stark of Winterfell.”

That prompted an offering of a different tune. “Do come in, my lord,” the butler bowed and moved aside to allow them both entry. Robb threw a pointed look back at Bronn who simply raised his brows with a knowing grin.

They were led to a long drawing room and asked to wait. The lit fireplace in the middle of one wall was welcome and both men moved to stand in front of the thing to gather some warmth. The walls were a deep juniper green and decorated with paintings of fine hunting horses and dogs.

After some time awaiting Miss Tarly, a footman entered and offered them some brandy. Robb refused, causing Bronn to swipe both pre-poured crystal tumblers. Robb could only shake his head.

They were almost ready to leave and search for the damned girl themselves when the butler returned.

“I’m afraid Miss Talla doesn’t appear to be on the estate at present,” he flustered, smoothing down his hair and jacket with his white gloved hands.

“What does that mean? Where can she be?” Robb asked, standing from his seat on the Tarly’s overstuffed chair.

“I’m afraid that I’m not quite sure,” the man answered, now looking rightfully worried. “I have the whole staff looking for her,” he told them.

Robb pushed his hand through his hair. “I need to speak to her,” he pressed. “Or to Tarly. It is of vital importance.”

He was told that there was nothing more to be done but await the return of the Lord and his wife as everyone else on the estate searched high and low for Miss Talla.

He sat back down with a frustrated huff. Bronn requested more liquor.

***

There was a pleasant feeling in her gut that Sansa tried not to mistrust. The Tarlys were good people, and little Sam was a dear, sweet little one. This sense of a new start that may be the beginning of something decent should be celebrated.

So why could she feel herself doubting the feeling of happiness humming through her?

The gatehouse cottage was absolutely perfect for her. Secluded from the main house and incredibly homely. There were two bedrooms, a sitting room, kitchen and dining room. The kitchen would hardly need to be utilised, she was told, as she would be invited to the big house for all her meals, and the dining room would serve well for a space for little Sam’s studies.

There was the most gorgeous walled garden that surrounded her little cottage. Not big – but seemed to be packed with all kinds of shrub and foliage. The colours were all rather subdued at this time of year, spare the odd splash of colour, but in the springtime…

_You may not be here in the spring to see it. Don’t go planting yourself if you’ll need to uproot later._

She smiled over at little Sam who was sticking his tongue out as he concentrated on slowly writing out his vowels for her.

Sam and Gilly had said that she needn’t start their son on his studies just yet, but they had stopped by the cottage on their way out to the village and the dear little chap had requested that he stay behind with her instead of accompanying his parents.

Sansa had said it’d be no bother and she would be glad of the company. And she was. He was a rather good little distraction from her musings.

“Mama and Papa are back,” he said, popping his head up and looking out the window. Sansa heard the horses hooves crunch into the gravel too and expected them to slow so that the Tarlys may pick up their son, but they carried on without breaking their pace. She got up from her seat to look for herself out the window.

What she saw was quite clearly not the estate carriage. It looked rather shabby in comparison and was driven by only one horse. She watched it amble up to the main house and half expected it to veer off towards the servant’s entrance, but no, it pulled up right in front of the manor’s main doors. Two men alighted, too far in away for her to discern any physical attribute for certain, but she narrowed her eyes when she fancied that one of them sported hair a shade of auburn when he removed his top hat.

Her heart whispered a cherished name and she chose to ignore it. Whoever these visitors were, they were here for the Tarlys and were of no concern to her.

Looking back at little Sam’s parchment, she saw that the boy must be gradually losing his focus as his line of perfect ‘O’s had turned into loop upon loop upon loop and ended in a scribble and a depiction of what looked like a bird of some kind.

“What’s happened here?” she asked.

Little Sam’s cheeks reddened. “The ‘o’s are eggs,” he explained, “and that’s a chicken.”

Sansa laughed before getting up to go over to the cabinet and bring out the boy’s little box of tin soldiers he’d brought with him. “Shall we stop that for a moment and re-enact the Battle at Fairmarket?”

Sam squealed in delight and pushed his papers away.

After a turn of re-enactment, including a granted plea from little Sam to map out the Battle of the Seven Stars, Sansa offered her small guest some of the cheese and fruit that a servant had brought for her around midday. They sat and nibbled as Sam told her all about the woods in the western edge of the estate, and how there was the most glorious oak tree that he dearly loves to climb. She promised that she should watch him do so one day soon.

If she was to stay, and begin her new life as a governess, Sansa will need to send for her things fairly soon. She wondered if Jon has read her parting note by now?

_Stop. Do not think of him._

A tap on the door provided Sansa with the distraction she sought.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Miss, but is Miss Talla here with you?” a rather out-of-breath scullery maid asked, bobbing up and down in a curtsey a little too late.

“No?”

The girl turned to leave, but something sat heavily on Sansa’s chest. “Is everything well?” she asked.

“She’s gone missing is all,” the girl explained. “No-one’s seen ‘er since breakfast.”

Sansa glanced over her shoulder at little Sam. The boy had not heard the conversation, but Sansa did not feel at all right staying here, out of the way, unable to help. “We’ll be along at the big house soon,” she called out to the maid who was already breaking into a fast pace back towards the manor.

Sansa had not spoken much with Talla, but the young girl reeked of a lovesickness so thick that its headiness was a painful reminder to Sansa of the girl she once was. A girl who she’ll never be again.

Gilly had all but confirmed it by telling Sansa that her good-sister was upset over a courting that didn’t quite get off the ground.

She felt for her – this girl who could be the very mirror image of her former self. If she could help her in any way, then she will.

She told little Sam to pack up his soldiers and put on his coat before they marched hand-in-hand towards the big house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's reuniting with who in the next chapterrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!!!! ;)


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb's PoV. A REUNION!!!

It was nearing two and half hours in total now. Two and a half hours that he’s been stuck in this man’s drawing room, awaiting his return or the discovery of Miss Talla Tarly.

Robb sighed as he aggressively flicked close the last page of Tarly’s newspaper that he’d borrowed to try and make the time seem to move faster. It hadn’t worked. Bronn was almost falling asleep in the smoking chair after having his third brandy. His legs were stretched out in front of him and his chin resting on his chest. The fireplace popped and crackled making Robb consider going over to it and using the brass poker to move the coals around and stoke the flames, just for something to do.

There was a tall bookcase at the end of the room that Robb glared at. If he’s left waiting long enough to be forced to entertain himself with opening up a novel, he may burst a blood vessel.

A particularly loud snore escaped Bronn’s open mouth causing the man to wake momentarily, shift around in his seat and smack his lips together before closing his eyes once more.

“Fine company, you are,” Robb grumbled.

Bronn beseechingly opened one eye. “You didn’t hire me for my company.”

“Aye,” Robb rolled the newspaper and tapped the man’s stomach with it making him at least attempt to sit up a little straighter and stay awake, “I hired you to help me get to the truth.”

There was some commotion outside the room and Robb’s very almost up out of his seat, thankful for an excuse to poke his head out the door and view something other than these four walls.

“Sam!” a woman’s voice calls from the hall outside, “you shouldn’t be running inside!“

A round faced little blond boy bursts through the door and comes skidding to a stop in front of them, rucking up the beautifully patterned Asshai rug as he went. The poor little chap looked a bit shocked to find them both there, his cheeks paling in the face of strangers.

“Hello,” Robb smiled, glad for any kind of distraction from the ticking clock and the waiting, waiting, waiting.

“Sam!” the woman in pursuit called as she too stepped over the threshold into the drawing room. “I’m so sorry, I-“ her words die on a gasp as eyes the most familiar shade of blue widen when they find his.

“ _Sansa,”_ Robb whispers, mouth agape as he stands, Tarly’s newspaper falling from his lap to the floor.

“I-“ she stammers, hands twisting together. “You’re here.”

It’s been more than two years and he can scarcely believe it. He’s found her, his darling sister – the same and yet so changed. His heart is light and dancing, and yet her eyes are round and her poise is making him somewhat nervous, like she could turn on her heel and flee any second now. “I’ve been searching for you,” he tells her.

Something painful digs in his chest when Sansa’s eyes glass over with shimmering tears. “You have?” she says on a breath.

“Of course.” How could she think otherwise?

He lets out the air his lungs were holding captive when a sob rips itself from her throat and she lunges forward, arms open, ready for him to catch her in an embrace. And catch her he will. Always.

“Robb,” Sansa cries into his chest, clinging on to his jacket lapels as if they had the means to save her life. “ _Robb.”_

Kissing the crown of her head and holding her tight, Robb suddenly remembers that they are not alone. The small boy is watching the exchange curiously. He looks a little uncomfortable and suddenly Robb has to wonder who the lad is. A bolt of panic is swallowed down when the fleeting idea that he could very well be Sansa’s own son enters his mind. But that just simply cannot be – the lad is far too much grown.

_Why is she here? And where is Hardyng?_

“I’m sorry. _I’m so, so sorry, Robb,”_ Sansa sniffles into his chest, her head shaking in dismay and her frame trembling with her sobs.

“Shhh,” he smooths his hand up and down her back. “It’s alright. I’ve found you now. I’ve got you.”

With only a flick of his eyes, Robb manages to request that Bronn remove the boy from the room and give him some privacy with his sister. Thankfully, the man understood and he could soon hear him attempt to make small talk with the lad on the other side of the door once it had been closed.

“Sansa,” he says, moving back to see her face. She’s flushed red and blotchy, and her cheeks are stained with horrid wet tears. “Sansa, what is going on? Why have you not written? Why did you not return? And where is Hardyng?”

Her eyes are rimmed red when she closes them, shaking her head at herself again.

“I was such a silly little girl. Please forgive me.”

“I’ll forgive you anything.”

Sansa sniffs and hurriedly wipes away two newly falling tears. “You do not know what I’ve done,” Sansa says, not managing to meet his eyes.

Robb’s gut twists painfully, though he reaches forward and hooks her under her chin to urge his sister look at him. “There is nothing that you could do that I would not forgive.”

That only brings a fresh flood of tears and she’s in his arms once more. He wants those answers from her, but he would not begrudge her comfort. Not when his heart seems to need it also.

They seem to stand there for an eternity, holding one another. Her sobs have lessened but his questions have not. The pop and crackle of the fire is joined with some sort of commotion outside the room.

“I said move aside!” a man’s voice is heard before the door opens and a rather heavy-set looking gentleman barges into the drawing room. “What is the meaning of this?” he demands. Sansa breaks away from Robb’s embrace and the large man is joined by a smaller, mousey-haired woman with the young boy Robb had seen earlier.

Bronn comes in too, his hands held up in surrender. “I tried to explain, but his lordship here wouldn’t listen.”

Lordship? This must be Tarly then?

“Lord Tarly,” Robb held out his hand in way of greeting. The man ignored it.

“Why are you upsetting my son’s governess? I-I’ll have you escorted from the grounds!”

“Governess?” Robb’s head whips round to look at his sister. Her cheeks are flaming, and he sees her swallow an uncomfortable gulp.

“Lord Tarly,” Sansa addresses the man, her spine pulled taut as she ignors Robb’s question hanging in the air, “Lady Tarly. This is Robb Stark…. Lord of Winterfell in the north and my brother.”

“Your brother?” the woman who must be Tarly’s wife said with a perplexed look upon her face. “But you said that you had no family.”

_No family? Oh Sansa, what has happened to force such lies from your lips?_

Sansa was studying the rug at her feet. “I did,” she admitted, raising her eyes to the Tarlys before them. “I lied. I…” her eyes closed once more. Robb watched her take a breath to stave off the tears that he’s sure are just beneath the surface of her graceful veneer. “I’ve told so many lies.”

The confession brings silence among them all. Robb dearly wants to get away from the others that are in the room so that he might find out the rest of the truth. A request to leave with his sister is on the very tip of his tongue when a serving maid comes hurriedly scurrying in.

“ _My Lord! My Lord!”_ She gasped, stopping to curtsy a little too late.

Tarly’s brow furrowed. “What is it, Rosie?”

She shoved a small piece of paper into the man’s hand. “This was found in Miss Talla’s writing desk.” She curtsies again, this time unnecessarily and most likely from whatever has gotten her nerves all in a panic. “She’s gone missin’ my lord, an’ that letter from Mr Hardyng arrived not long after she broke her fast.”

Sansa makes a noise beside him. It’s horrid and sudden, like a huge gasp for air after being under water for too long. “Hardyng?” she asks in a pale voice. “ _Harrold Hardyng_?!”

Tarly’s eyebrows draw even closer, his gaze flitting from Sansa to the letter down in his hand and back again. “Yes,” he confirmed, “Hardyng’s the chap that Talla fancied might court her. But he left town so suddenly and she’s been-“

“Oh don’t let her anywhere near him, _please!_ ” Sansa yelps, stepping forward to grasp at Tarly’s forearm. “Please, Sam! He’ll…. He’ll _ruin_ her!”

Tarly’s wife moved closer. “What do you mean, Sansa?”

Robb watched as his sister looked between himself and the Tarlys with wide frantic eyes. Her throat bobbed and he could see her grip on the lord’s jacket sleeve intensify. “ _Please,”_ she begged, voice hoarse and cracked. “He’s not a good man. He…” Sansa bit her lip, the words plainly painful in her mouth.

“It’s alright,” Robb offered, shifting closer to Sansa as if able to lend her some courage via nothing more than his proximity. “Whatever it is, it’ll be alright.”

“He made me love him,” she confessed, turning to him as if they were the only two in the room, “at least, I thought he had. We talked of marriage. He made me believe it. All of it.” Her eyes closed off the outside world as she uttered the next part of her story. “I gave him my virtue… and he left. I'm so sorry.”

 _I’ll kill him._ The rage was a bubbling, burning thing curling and stinging his stomach.

Lord and Lady Tarly exchanged a rightfully worried look.

“You have to stop her,” Sansa pleaded, opening her eyes again and shaking her head frantically at the Tarlys. “If she’s gone to him then you have to stop her.”

The large man’s eyes skimmed the note. “I think she has,” he said in a rush. “It mentions a meeting at The Hunter’s Inn.”

Robb’s insides swoop. “We were just there.” _The girl… The man I saw her greet... Seven Hells! Hardyng was within reach?!_

“Rosie,” the lord barked, “have a horse readied for me.”

The maid ducked up and down. “Not the carriage, my lord?”

“A horse will be ready much faster. Time is of the essence.” The man looked as though he was sweating already even though nothing yet was done.

“One for me too. If you please.”

All eyes turned to Robb.

Bronn shifted and sighed. “Best make that three then, lass,” he said. “Someone’s got to make sure his lordship doesn’t go and murder the scoundrel.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gets some information and Robb catches up with Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiii! This is just a short chapter to try and get back into the swing of this one - Hopefully it's not too rusty!

Jon had never been particularly well skilled at waiting. His skin itched for action and his ears were always playing tricks on him. A few days have passed since he’d found that Alayne had left, and each tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway has marked his now sorrowful existence.

The worst of it was he had to acknowledge that he may well be waiting around for something that might not ever come. Margaery Tyrell had suggested that Miss Stone would send for her belongings, and that way he may find out her location. But what if she never does? What if she’s abandoned them completely? Or worst still, what if Alayne would not welcome her discovery?

He _has to_ try, Jon decides as he cursed his wretched father for perhaps the hundredth time that day.

Sighing and pushing his fingers through his unruly hair, Jon places down the manuscript he had been making notes on. He really does need to get back to his office and see to things there, but the worry that the couriers would arrive as soon as he leaves Sisters Street gnaws away at him.

He wanders upstairs to her room. Or, what _was_ her room. Ivy and her mother Nora had already packed Alayne’s belongings into trunks that littered the now bare-looking upstairs. Whispers of her presence are clear to Jon never-the-less. He can almost hear the sound of rustling fabric from behind the painted dressing screen up here, or see her sat by the fire, so enthralled by one of his manuscripts that she’s smiling down at the page, quite unaware. She is everywhere in this house.

Jon found himself stood in front of the trunk at the foot of the bed. His eyes rose slowly to the unmade mattress. He’d bought the fine cotton sheets for her, so they had been packed as well. _We made love on that bed,_ he found himself thinking. _Well, I had, at least._

Letting out a sigh, Jon moved to the polished walnut wardrobe and opened one door with a creak. The thing was empty of course, all of Alayne’s gowns having been prepared for their journey back to her. Jon felt more than prepared for that particular journey himself.

“Beggin’ your pardon mi’lord,” Ivy stepped inside the room, her hands clasped together in front of her crisp white pinafore. “There’s tea and sandwiches in the parlour for when you’re ready.”

“Thank you, Iv-“

_Knock-knock._

The maid’s eyes widened in mimicry of Jon’s own before he rushed past her to hurry back downstairs, Ivy hot on his heels.

The stout middle-aged man’s fist was still raised to knock again when Jon had yanked open the door. His eyebrows rose as he looked to Jon, and then down to the piece of paper in his other hand. There was a long, four horse-drawn cart waiting in the street behind him.

“Is this the previous residence of Miss Stone?” he asked.

“It is,” Jon’s words rushed over themselves. “Where are you taking her items?”

The man met his eyes as he pocketed the scrap of paper and brushed down his waistcoat with his palms. “Apologies, sir,” he said in a clipped tone, his hand briefly grabbing at the peak of his well-worn flat cap, “but my job is moving belongings here and there, not the passing along of information about my boss’s customers.”

 _Blast it!_ Jon let out a huff and felt himself deflate. He licked at his lips and tried again. “Please. I need to talk with Miss Stone. It is of upmost importance.”

Glancing over his shoulder his two workmen come to do the manual labour of shifting Alayne’s belongings, the gentleman opened his palm and raised his brow expectantly, causing Jon to fumble before placing a five dragon note into the man’s hand. He coughed and tucked the bribe money into his waistcoat pocket.

“I can’t tell you an exact location,” he admits, “we have to take the items to be carried out of the city by train. I’m not privy to the intended destination of the belongings.” Jon grit his teeth before the man continued. “But I can tell you that the cargo train is headed west to The Reach.”

“The Reach?” Jon repeated as his mind started whirring. The Reach is vast area, but it’s a start. If he can stay with Sam for a while, then he may be able to get his ear to the ground. He turned and headed back into the property, completely within his own mind as he ignored the removals man and Ivy both.

_If I can find her and explain. If she’ll let me. I have to try at least._

Not half an hour later and all of Alayne’s possessions were loaded onto the bed of the cart, a sheet of rough hessian drawn over them and secured with rope bindings.

“Wait!” Jon called moments before the driver was about to engage the horses. Jon’s hand slipped into his inside jacket pocket and retrieved a note to his Alayne that he’d spent an embarrassingly extensive amount of time penning the past few days. Letting out a resigned sigh and closing his eyes, Jon pressed his lips to the folded parchment. “This is Miss Stone’s also,” he told the waiting men. _It contains my heart._ Lifting the hessian cover, Jon found one of her vanity cases that was used to pack her gloves and a few scarves. He lifted the lid and placed the note inside.

_If I cannot find you, this will._

***

ROBB

“YOU!” Robb roared as soon as he’d scanned the near desolate inn and homed in on his target. His blood was pounding in his ears and all that he saw before him was red.

The girl, Talla Tarly, yelped and shifted slightly apart from the man she was seated too close to. _Hardying,_ Robb’s internal voice snarled as he watched the man’s face pale.

“Can I help you, sir?” the innkeep asked, placing down the cloth and pewter tankard he had been polishing with it. Robb felt Bronn and Lord Tarly catch up and pass over the inn’s threshold at his back. He turned in time to see Bronn closing the door and sliding the lock in place. “Hey!” the innkeep commented.

“We just need a word with one of your patrons and we’ll be on our way,” Bronn assured the man. With one last look over them, the man nod his head and left them alone with their intended target.

“Talla!” Lord Tarly, all red-faced and panted breath exclaimed, rushing towards the couple. “What in the name of the Seven do you think you’re doing?!”

Robb felt himself begin to stride forwards just as the girl rose to her feet with her frustrated hands balled at her sides. “You’re ruining everything, Sam!” she whined petulantly, just before Robb lurched forward and his fist connected with Hardying’s nose with a sharp thud. Talla shrieked and dropped back down to the bench seat beside Harold, her wary hands fluttering around him as he cursed and cupped his face.

“Harold Hardying,” Robb sneered, ignoring the throb in his knuckles, “I challenge you to a duel.”

“What?!” Talla gasped. Robb could hear the soft chuckle of Bronn behind him. “What is going on?!”

Lord Tarly piped up then, pointing an accusatory finger at Talla’s beloved. “This….this man – no, this _scoundrel_ – has acted untoward with Miss Stark in the past, Talla. I don’t want you anywhere near him!”

Hardying’s eyes peeked out from either side of his hands cupping his nose and met with Robb’s. He could quite clearly see the man connect the dots and get a clear picture of what it was that was transpiring and with whom it was transpiring with.

“There must be some mistake,” Talla refuted.

Hardying lowered his hands and Robb was pleased to find his face streaked and stained crimson. “You’re Sansa’s brother, then?” he asked, resigned. Talla’s head whipped towards the man beside her, her lips parting in surprise.

“Aye,” Robb growled, leaning over the table towards the object of his piercing hatred. “And I’ll be damned if I’m letting you walk away from this unscathed.”

Harold snorted, droplets of blood falling onto his pristine cream cravat. “Consider me _‘scathed’_ , Lord Stark” he jested, gesturing to his most likely broken nose.

“I mean to make you pay more dearly than that,” Robb spat.

“Can someone please tell me what the meaning of all this is?” Talla asked, her eyes flitting between them all.

“Tell her,” Robb barked. Hardying closed his eyes and sighed to himself. “ _Tell her!”_ he bellowed making both Talla and Hardying jump from their skins.

Robb watched as the man twisted on his seating, turning to face the girl he had most likely been intent on dishonouring. He did not meet her eyes though, instead they remained lowered towards her lap. _Coward,_ Robb sneered.

“I… I had… _relations_ with Miss Stark, it is true.”

Robb thought that the inn must’ve never been as quiet as it was in that moment. They all quite clearly heard the sharp inhale of breath that Talla Tarly took. “I don’t-“

“I…” Hardying started again, eyes briefly flitting towards Robb. “You see… my family has fallen upon hard luck financially, and Baelish had tried to help me, but then he changed the plan and-“

“Baelish?” Robb heard himself ask. “Petyr Baelish?”

“Yes. He introduced me to Sansa and told me of her dowry. Said that it could be the answer to my troubles and all I had to do was get her to love me-”

Talla stood rather suddenly and struck Hardying across the cheek with a sharp slap before her tears overcame her and she fled the inn, closely followed by her brother. Robb watched them go before he turned back to the coward and pierced him with a deathly glare. “Go on,” he ordered.

Hardying opened his palms as if pleading for understanding. He’ll get none today. “I had intensions of following through with the marriage but-“

“You made her believe that you loved her,” Robb accused. “Tricked her into loving you in return and you… you used her like a… a _whore,_ before running off to find another!”

Hardying hung his head. Defeated. “It wasn’t part of the plan,” he said, slowly lifting his gaze. “I would have married Sansa had Petyr not decided that she needed to suffer further-“

“ _SUFFER FURTHER?!”_ Robb thundered, slamming his hands down on the table. He wanted to pull the man’s tongue clean from his mouth for the words falling from his lips. How could anyone suffer more than his sister clearly had?

The air between them had grown tense as Hardying said nothing, only stared back at Robb with his chest rising and falling in anger and grief and a thirst for vengeance.

Harold wet his lips. “Petyr is the man you want to punish for this.” He raised his hands in surrender when Robb all but snarled at him in response. “I’ll… I’ll help you get to him. Just…please, reconsider the duel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do let me know if you are enjoying this fic - encouraging comments really do spur me on to continue!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robb's PoV

“The Tarlys have a guest,” Robb heard himself commenting idly as he was stood by the paned window in Sansa’s little cottage, thin raindrops beginning to dot the glass. His sister looked up in time to see the shiny black mare clip-clopping past, pulling along its carriage.

“All the more reason to stay away then,” she grinned at him from her place sat by the fire, with embroidery hoop in hand.

Robb came to seat himself opposite her, still scarcely believing his luck at having Sansa in his life once more. “You adore socialising,” he countered.

“I did, once… back when I thought I could trust my instincts about people.”

They’ve been skirting around many things since Robb had returned from the inn yesterday. He had told himself to allow her some time – time that they had spent together secluded in Tarly’s cottage, painting smiles across their faces with brushes dipped in happy memories. At some point, very soon though, they will have to talk more seriously; about what has happened since their parting, about what Robb intends to do with Harry and Baelish. Melancholy comments such as these only serve to remind Robb that the time for such discussions is creeping ever closer still.

“Does that mean that we’re not to hold any further balls back at Winterfell once we return?” he japes, his face falling a little when his jest is met with nothing more than a downward tug of Sansa’s mouth and a shrug of her shoulders as she continues her needlework. His sister is much changed.

“I’ve no want for silly dances any more, brother,” she finally sighs, no doubt feeling his eyes on her, trying to piece together who this new sister of his is.

“Is that it then? You’ll stay cooped up at Winterfell with me? I would’ve thought you blanche at the idea.” There was more wordlessness between them, though the determined manor in which Sansa was diligently observing the prick and pull of thread in her hands told him a great deal. Robb sighed. “Sansa,” he started softly, “Hardyng may have turned out to be a rotten fool, but you should not close yourself off to other possibilities. I realised once you had left exactly how much I had leant on you for support with the estate, and I should not want to burden you further-“

“It is no burden.”

“But it could cost you your own happiness.” Leaning forward, Robb grasped one of Sansa’s hands in both of his, compelling her to abandon her craft. “I will never force you from Winterfell. You must know that. The estate is your home as much as it is mine. And I would selfishly have you there with me for an eternity,” Robb paused, making sure to see in her eyes that she knew he was speaking true, “but, I _know_ you, Sansa. You would not be content to hide away. You were made to be cherished and loved, I know that-”

Her hand slipped from his so abruptly that the movement made his words stick in his throat. Robb watched as Sansa angrily stabbed the poor piece of linen she was attempting embroider. “Love is a concept completely fabricated to placate wives and silly girls like me,” she hissed, no longer looking to Robb.

He watched her for a time. She was refusing to acknowledge him or the turn their conversation had taken, so his eyes sought the crackling fire. It was a wet, grizzly-grey day outside of the cottage, and the lighting of the fire had seemed such a comforting and cosy notion. Now all Robb felt was chilled.

“Sansa,” he ventured gently, “please tell me what happened.” Her head lifted, and he could see her eyes shining with amber echoes of the fire beside them. “Please.”

“You’ll hate me,” she whispered.

“Never.”

His heart stung from watching her lower lip tremble before she was swallowing down the sob threatening to escape. “You will, Robb.”

“ _Never,”_ he repeated, more sternly, accompanied by a shake of his head. Still she stayed silent. “Did Baelish hurt you in any way?” Robb ventured, hoping for some kind of answer – _any answer._

“Baelish?”

He nod his head. “Hardying mentioned him… said that he… did not have your best interests at heart.”

Sansa let out a noise, part chuckle, part huff. It held no amusement in its tone however. “Baelish-“ she started, only to halt and rethink her words. “Baelish… provided a solution for the predicament I was in with Harry.”

“I don’t understand.”

“After Harry-“ she sighed and closed her eyes before carrying on. “After Harry… _ruined_ me, Petyr explained that I just could not return to Winterfell.”

“And why not?” Robb asked, sitting up straighter. Sansa looked to him as if the answer was plain.

“Because the scandal would ruin you in turn. Our family name would be muck on the underside of everyone’s boots! All because I was a foolish girl. I still am. I’m not entirely sure it’s wise that I return to Winterfell now in fact.”

Robb shook his head. She was getting herself wound up tighter and tighter, like a coiled spring. He could practically feel the air of panic wafting from her in noisy, busy waves. “You _are_ coming home with me, Sansa,” he told her. “I’ve only just found you, I’m not letting you go again so easily.”

“I won’t be _going_ anywhere. I’ll stay here and tutor little Sam. I just don’t think it wise to-“

“I don’t give a bloody fig what other people think of our family, Sansa! They can all hang if they speak ill of you.” Shocked, Sansa’s eyes widened as she stared at him for a beat or two until he spoke again, more softly this time. “Whatever has happened, Sansa. Whatever it is… you are the only family left to me, and I shall be damned if I lose you. There is no crime heinous enough that you could commit that I would not welcome you at our home again.”

Two fat tears streaked slowly down her porcelain cheeks, leaving sorrowful trails in their wake. “Please don’t say that,” she whispered.

“Why?”

“Because then it was all for nought,” Sansa sniffed, wiping at her face. “I listened to Petyr, and I believed him, and I did things I-“ she swallowed down something uncomfortable and averted her gaze, “I took his advice when I could have _come home.”_ Robb so dearly wanted to scoop her up into an embrace, but likely that would ease the flow of tears from her eyes and he may never wish to broach the subject again. He _had_ to know though. What was it that has happened that is so terrible? How had Baelish set out to punish her? “I was stupid to listen to him,” she said eventually.

“No,” Robb countered, “don’t ever think that, Sansa. You were far from home, you thought yourself in love with Hardyng. You thought a marriage was in sights. Broken-hearted people make rash decisions, and by the sounds of it, you were trying to protect me. You are not stupid. You are not to blame. Petyr Baelish is at fault here, and that scoundrel Hardyng, not you, sweet one.”

He watched the bob of her throat as she swallowed and looked down to her lap. “Robb, I… I sold my body.”

It was barely a scratch of a voice, he’d hardly made out the words but a chill raced down his spine none-the-less. “Pardon?”

“I exchanged my company in the bedroom for payment,” she said a little more clearly, meeting his eyes now.

Robb furrowed his brow as though he had not understood those particular words in that order. “You…?” he stuttered, searching the rug at their feet for answers before looking to her face once more. “ _Why?”_

“Petyr suggested it; that I become a courtesan. I was convinced that I couldn’t come home to you ruined, so I took his advice. I needed to be able to support myself on my own. He introduced me to my first benefactor.”

A prickling rage like none other crept painfully up his throat. “I will _kill_ him,” Robb snarled, hands forming tight fists that itched to hear the crunch of more than one bone. “Him, and however many men have… have… _paid_ you.” He paused to look at her then, “how many?”

“…two.”

 _Oh, thank the seven heavens she was not passed from pillar to post!_ Two, Robb could deal with… just about. “I want names,” he demanded.

“No, Robb,” Sansa shook her head. “I cannot do that. They were merely business transactions.”

“Business transactions? How can you say such a thing?”

“What else would you have me say?! They provided means for me to live and I provided them with… a service.”

How could she make it all sound so wretchedly simple? Who was this woman in front of him? Where had his sweet, romantic sister gone? There was another question that he almost dare not ask. He knew enough about some men’s tastes and temperaments. He’d heard gruesome tales of how some _‘gentlemen’_ like to treat their whores. Robb felt himself blanche. _My sister is no whore._ “Did they… hurt you?”

“Not physically.”

Robb’s gut churned. “What does that mean?”

Sansa sighed. “No, brother. They didn’t hurt me. Just turned my heart a little more bitter.” Robb stood and went back to the window. How could this have happened to his sweet sister? She was born to be a lady of a great manor, wife to a lord, not a bedwarmer sold to the highest bidder. “Can you… forgive me?” Sansa asked softly. Robb had not realised how much silence had passed between them.

He turned back to her and went over to kneel before her skirts and take her hand in his. “There is nothing to forgive, Sansa.”

“Truly?” Her eyes were watery and her lip trembled under the weight of her worry.

“Truly.” Robb made sure his declaration was firm and unwavering, sealing his statement with a kiss to her knuckles and a small smile. Sansa’s lips twitched upwards as a few fresh tears fell. She sniffed and wiped at her cheeks.

“What is to be done with Harry?”

They were to tackle everything in one fell swoop, it would seem. Robb got to his feet and sighed, pushing his hand through his hair, he began pacing the short space by the cottage fireplace. “He wants to help us reach Baelish,” he said, scrubbing at his chin in contemplation.

“He does?”

“Well, no. I phrased that incorrectly. He wants to avoid being called to a duel by me.”

“Oh, Robb,” Sansa gasped, “you can’t duel Harry!”

He stopped his pacing and swivelled on his feet to face her, his boots making a pleasing scrape against the stone floor before the fire. “I can,” he countered, “but I won’t.” Sansa’s brow furrowed, urging him to continue. “Baelish is the cause of all this, and Hardyng is our key to getting at the foul man.”

“If he doesn’t run away first,” Sansa commented, picking up her embroidery again, “he’s rather good at that.”

Robb grinned. “Not with my man, Bronn breathing down his neck he won’t be. He’s not going anywhere until we use him to lure Baelish here.” Robb thought of how desperate Hardyng had been to somehow come away from this all scot-free yesterday. He’d told them of how Baelish was abroad on business, but he was convinced he could make the man travel to them.

Sansa’s hands fell to her lap, along with her needlework. “Why on earth would Petyr come here?! And what do you intend to do with –“ she paused, her eyes narrowing up at him. “You want to duel him.”

“I’m a decent shot,” he argued.

“Robb, this is insanity. Can we not just forget this instead of lusting for vengeance?”

Robb heard himself snort. “No. We cannot.”

They shared a few seconds of a glare – resistance radiating from the both of them before Sansa huffed and left the parlour. A knock at the cottage door prevented him from following.

“Beggin’ your pardon, mi’lord,” one of Tarly’s maids said during a deep curtsy upon the front step, “I’ve been sent to tell you that you are both invited to the big house for dinner this evening.”

“Please thank Lord and Lady Tarly, but I’m afraid we shall decline tonight.” Robb was grateful to the Tarly’s for their hospitality and treating his sister kindly, but he should rather like to spend some more time alone with Sansa.

“Yes, mi’lord,” the maid bobbed up and down once more and scurried back towards the manor house, holding onto her cap as a strong gust of wind billowed through her uniform.

The rest of the day was spent avoiding the subject of Hardyng and Baelish. Robb could tell that an argument was on the very tip of Sansa’s tongue several times, but neither of them were in the mood to break the pleasant feeling they had blanketed themselves with, however temporary that may be.

“I didn’t know you could play poker,” he grinned at her during their second card game, sat at the cottage’s little worn dining table. Sansa said nothing as she continued to deal their hands. Glancing up briefly to the sound of hooves and wheels moving over the gravel path, his sister was quick to get to her feet and go to the window, attempting to angle herself for a better view of the cart that had already passed.

“Is that…?” she muttered to herself, “…it is!”

Before Robb could utter one syllable of a question, she was out the door and through the cottage gate. “Stop!” she yelled, waving an arm up in the air. Her dress was getting rapidly dotted with raindrops. “Stooop!”

“What is it?” Robb called.

“My things! They’ve arrived but they’re taking them to the big house!” she responded giddily. Robb let out a chuckle, which in turn made her laugh too. She was quite the sight, standing there waving and shouting in the rain. Most un-lady-like, but also rather becoming too. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back to feel the rain on her face as Robb was content to lean his shoulder on the doorframe and watch her.

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to venture out of this cottage after all,” he grinned. “But first, come back in here and dress properly for the weather! You’ll catch your death!”

Sansa rolled her eyes playfully but heeded his advice.

By the time they entered the manor house, they weren’t _too_ bedraggled. Robb’s hair was near to sopping and Sansa had quickly fashioned her own hair up and under a bonnet, but the winds had set quite a few strands loose about her face. Her cheeks were pink from the chill and he supposes his must be too.

The cart most likely unloaded her belongings around by the servant’s entrance as they’d passed the thing exiting the estate, without its cargo. Sansa was excited to retrieve her things, Robb was told she had been living in just three dresses in heavy rotation.

“Oh, you’ve come after all!” Lady Tarly exclaimed happily once spotting them as she happened past the entrance hall.

“Lady Tarly,” Robb bowed in greeting. “We saw that Sansa’s possessions have arrived and it seems she cannot bear to wait till tomorrow to retrieve a few items from her trunks.”

Sansa playfully slapped his arm for painting her in an impatient light. “And we would very much like to accept the offer to dine with you, Lady Tarly.”

“Gilly, please,” Lady Tarly beamed before seeming to remember something. “Oh, one of Sam’s oldest friends has arrived this morning. You must come and meet him before we get called into the dining room.”

They both followed the lady of the house into that blasted drawing room that Robb had seemingly spent hour upon hour waiting in not so long ago. At the other end was Lord Tarly and his sister, Talla. A dark-haired gentleman was speaking with them both with his back to them.

An attentive footman rushed forward as they entered the room, a silver tray balanced atop his gloved hand. “Oh, you must have a sherry,” Gilly insisted, lifting two small crystal cut glasses from the tray and offering them to Robb and Sansa.

“Thank y-“ he heard his sister say before her words ended in a gasp and the sound of crystal shattering on hardwood flooring filled the room.

“Sansa?” Robb murmured, hand at her elbow, “are you alright?”

She wasn’t paying him one whit of attention though. Her widened eyes were cast over Gilly’s shoulder.

“Alayne?” a voice from the other end of the room met his ears and he looked up to see that Sam’s dark-haired friend was none other than Jon Targaryen, whom he had met in King’s Landing. The man looked awe-struck and his sister wore an identical expression. Robb's mind started to catch up with him.

He’s sure, from his first meeting with Targaryen that the man was setting up an account at the tailors for a kept woman. And then, at Margeary Tyrell’s of all places, he’d said something about trying to find someone who had left him. Everything clicked into place as he looked from Sansa to the man who was staring right back at her.

“Alayne… you’re here,” the man looked unbelievably relieved as he took a step forward.

“ _Why, you little-"_ Robb snarled and shoved his sherry back into Lady Tarly’s hands before striding towards Jon Targaryen with a red curtain of wrath clouding his vision.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things come to light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Vivi who helped me with my insecurities about this update! xx

_She’s here!_ Jon’s heart whispered in giddy exhilaration as his lungs refused to release a breath. He’d been at Horn Hill for not nearly a day, and he’d found her. Alayne had waltzed into the drawing room like his foolish heart had summonsed her to him. Feeling a little dizzy-headed, Jon took a step forward, eyes intent on his Alayne as everything and everyone around them melted into an inconsequential blur… except, part of that blur was moving towards him. Rapidly.

With refocus, Jon realised that the movement approaching him was none other than Robb Stark. How curious. His eyes flit from Stark to Alayne, who was staring at him as though she were viewing an apparition. Robb Stark was still advancing when an uncomfortable thought wrapped itself around Jon’s throat and gave an almighty squeeze. _She’s found a new benefactor already?_ Something hot and prickling clawed at his belly and a snarl erupted just as Stark roughly grabbed at his lapels with two tense fists.

“ _You!”_ Robb Stark growled, shaking him with a rage that Jon could not fathom. “How _dare_ you!”

“How dare _I_?” he shoved the man back, indignant and irritated that there now seemed to be yet another obstacle between himself and his Alayne. He needs to speak with her alone. Perhaps no contract has been signed yet. Perhaps he can persuade her of his heart.

“Now, now,” Sam tried to interject, “what’s all this about?” Jon was as confused as his friend.

“Robb, _please,”_ Alayne pleaded from the other side of the room. “Don’t do this.”

Stark ignored her. Instead, his eyes flashed dangerously, and he bared his teeth like some sort of animal. “He treated you like a _whore_ ,” the man spat. Jon’s gut twisted at the word as Gilly and Talla both let out gasps of surprise. “I will do as I please with him,” Robb hissed whilst pointing an accusatory finger in Jon’s face.

“Oh, that’s rich,” he sneered back, anger and hurt bubbling to the surface. The man would wrongfully accuse him of something that he himself is guilty of?

“There must be some misunderstanding,” Sam interjected, stepping closer.

“I understand perfectly well, Lord Tarly,” Robb bellowed, “your _friend_ here paid my sister to warm his bed!”

The silence that followed was thick and deafening, it crept up his throat and sealed it over with cloying dread. _Sister?_ Jon looked to Alayne who’s features were awash with an acute sort of agony. Distantly, he was aware that Gilly was ushering out the servants and Talla too. She then came to stand by Alayne and squeezed her arm reassuringly. Not that she seemed to notice at all, her watery eyes bouncing between Stark and himself.

“Jon?” Sam was the first to break the blanket of tension. “Is this true?”

Suddenly rather dry-mouthed, Jon swallowed and made to answer, only to be interrupted.

“ _Aye, it’s true_ ,” Robb spat.

Jon shook his head. He has it wrong. He could see how it seemed to anyone on the outside of the situation, but it has never been anything as crass and base as that which Stark is making it out to be. “It’s not as simple as that.”

Robb Stark’s nostrils flared as he snorted. “ _Not as simple?_ Did you, or did you not provide payment for my sister’s company? Did you sign a contract? Will I find trinkets and jewels in my sister’s belongings that you bought in order to coerce her into performing lewd acts upon your person?!”

“Robb, _please!”_ Alayne all but sobbed. Gilly moved closer to her and began rubbing her arm.

Stark turned to look at her then, seemingly suddenly aware that he’d laid bare her dreadful secret. “I… I would defend your honour,” he argued, his head whipping back towards Jon. “I would call for my sister’s honour to be defended tomorrow morning, at dawn’s first light.”

“No!” Alayne gasped, lurching forward and holding on to her brother’s arm.

“You can’t mean to… to duel?” Sam said beside him as the situation was still catching up with Jon. He seemed to be able to do little more than shake his head in dismay. This is all _wrong_. What he had with Alayne and how he felt for her was not a stain upon her honour. Or at least, that is how it was for Jon. Damn it all, he would have her for a wife if she’d allow! And now he is accused of this terrible crime?

“That is most certainly what I mean,” Stark responded, pulling his spine taut and glaring at Jon with a shade of challenge in his eye. Jon is never one to back down from a fight, but the man does not have all facts.

And, it appears, neither did Jon.

“You can’t,” Alayne shook her brother’s arm to get his attention. The man resisted and continued to stare Jon down. “Robb, please. _I love him._ You can’t!”

All eyes in the room were on Alayne in an instant. Not that Jon had noticed. Her words echoed around in the chambers of his chest before finding purchase somewhere fertile, where something like hope bloomed. She was staring at him, and although her eyes were glassy from tears and her cheeks a blotchy kind of red, right then, Alayne Stone was the most beautiful woman in the world to Jon. He let out a stuttering breath and took one single stagger forward only to cease the motion when Robb Stark began to speak.

“You cannot mean that, Sansa.”

Jon felt his brow furrow at the mention of the name most unfamiliar. Alayne’s eyes turned to him, witnessing something move over his face that she quite clearly anticipated. “Sansa?” he whispered hoarsely, each letter a confused sort of sound.

“It… it is my true name,” she admitted, eyes slowly casting downwards to the patterned rug beneath their feet, heavily laden with guilt. “I wanted to tell you.”

Stark looked between them both. “You claim that you love this man and yet he did not know your name?”

Jon’s gut plummeted down to his shoes. He could not find that place within him that was sprouting something most optimistic just mere moments ago.

“ _Yes_ ,” the woman who had been Alayne responded to her brother. She stuck out her chin and hardened the lines of her pretty face. “And if you dare to call for a pistol duel, brother, I shall _never_ return home with you.” Robb Stark said nothing, although his bravado deflated a little, which only seemed to bolster Sansa’s confidence. “You talk of defending my honour when it is you that has dashed it most horribly this evening in front of our hosts!”

Robb Stark had grace enough to look slightly abashed.

“I assure you,” Gilly started, stepping forward, “no one shall speak of this.”

“I’m not sure I entirely follow enough to be able to speak of it should I wish to,” Sam muttered, looking to Jon, still a little confused. Jon had wanted to confess all to his friend months ago but had also been rather keen on the idea of him and Gilly getting to know Alayne without the particulars of their relationship to colour their opinion of her. He was sure they would love her. How could one not?

The dinner gong rang in the hall, the sound reverberating around the room and somehow sounding most ominous.

“Someone needs to tell the staff to postpone,” Gilly said pointedly, staring at her husband. It did the trick and soon Sam was shuffling from the room. She moved closer to the woman who used to be Alayne and grasped her hand as she looked to Robb Stark. “No one will be firing pistols at Horn Hill tomorrow. Not on my lawn. Do you understand?”

Robb Stark expelled a huff of air from his nose but nodded his acceptance of the matter.

“Now,” Gilly said, seeming determined to take the reigns on the situation, “it is quite clear that more discussions are needed here. Perhaps we shall take our dinner separately tonight, rest, and then you shall have use of our drawing room tomorrow to iron out your… _disagreements.”_ She stopped to smile sweetly at Sansa and brush a comforting hand over her shoulder. “That is, if you can refrain from killing one another?” Gilly raised her brows at both gentlemen.

Jon cannot speak for Robb Stark. He thoroughly suspects that the man should very much like to have him hung, drawn and quartered still. He doesn’t blame him, but he doesn’t _know._

And neither does his Al-… neither does _Sansa_. Jon can see the logic in Gilly’s suggestion, but there is so much that he needs to say to her. How could he bare to wait an agonising night? He licked his lips and squared his feet as Sansa stared at him. All the while, Jon was still trying out the foreign name for her. It felt strange, like someone were attempting to convince him that his own name had been false. She was _his Alayne._ How could she be anyone else? What other untruths are yet to surface? He wanted nothing hidden between them. Nothing at all.

“My father is a complete ass,” he blurted, choosing to forget Gilly’s request for a reprieve. Sansa’s brow knit together. “Whatever it is he told you, I can assure you that he does not have a grasp on the true situation.”

“The true situation?” Sansa parroted in query. “And what is that?”

Jon swallowed thickly and nodded, glancing down to his shoes briefly before bringing his eyes back up to meet with hers. “That I love you,” he said simply.

Jon was watching Sansa but quite clearly heard Robb Stark snort dismissively. He paid him no mind, in time he will need to redeem himself in the man’s eyes, but right now Sansa called for any and all of his attention. She was watching him, unsure despite her own declaration earlier. It occurred to Jon that perhaps she had reconciled her feelings along with the notion that they could never be. The thought is a painful one.

“It’s why you left me, isn’t it?” he continued, not caring for the other two in the room, “because my father said something wretched to you?”

She began to wring her hands together. “Partly, yes.”

“Partly?”

“He said that you were to wed,” she stated, ignoring his query.

Jon took a step forward, only for Robb Stark to shift into his path towards his sister, not so subtly acting as a shield between them both. Jon took a second to register the warning in Stark’s eyes before looking back to Sansa. “I would wed no one but you,” he told her, “I said so to my father after his intentions became clear. By the time I’d found out he had visited you, you’d gone.”

Her eyes widened but she said nothing. The room turned unbearably warm as he awaited her response. Any response. But before she could utter a word, the lady of the house repeated her earlier request.

“I think some time is needed to reflect on what’s been said,” Gilly stated slowly, linking her arm through Sansa’s and starting to gently pull her away. “The Starks may sup with me in the dining room. Jon, I’ll send my husband along and you two can dine in the billiards room or his study.”

“I-“ Jon stuttered, wetting his lips, “there is more that needs to be said.”

“And you may say it tomorrow, Jon Targaryen,” Gilly told him pointedly over her shoulder as she ushered Sansa from the room. Robb continued to glare at him until he too was called for. “Robb Stark, if you’re contemplating murdering Jon in my drawing room, you shall have me to contend with and it shall not be pretty!”

He left the room with a final silent warning in his eyes for Jon, his lip twitching in disgust.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this update has been a long time coming - I took a little break from writing. I hope everyone had a great festive season and new year! (And I hope you enjoy the update!)

SANSA

Sansa’s heart was still fluttering against the confines of her ribs as she was seated at the Tarly’s grand, finely polished dining table. Gilly sat to her right at the head, and Robb opposite her. All other place settings – bright silverware and thin-cut crystal wine glasses - had been hurriedly ushered away. There were two ornate silver candelabras sat at either end of the table, both lit, even though the seats were vacant at the far side.

The butler and a footman were serving, presenting various items to be doled out onto her plate. Sansa refused almost all of it, not really paying much attention to what was being offered until she realised that her dinnerplate had become home to one singular cut of honeyed duck and nothing else. She decided to accept a scoop of carrots even though she’s not sure she’d be eating any of those either.

“You may leave,” Gilly said to the servants once Robb’s wine glass had been filled. “I shall ring the bell if any assistance is needed.” With that, both manservants made swift bows before exiting the room. Gilly looked to Sansa with affectionate concern.

And that was all it took for the enormity of Sansa’s situation to overpower her resolve to be strong.

 _“Oh Gods!”_ she almost sobbed, bringing both hands up to cover her face. _“Oh Gods!”_ she repeated, the words coming out in a sort of panicked hiccup. “What must you think of me?”

Gilly outstretched a hand toward Sansa, laying it gently down on the deep mahogany surface, her pale skin reflecting in its polished depths. “I think the same as I thought when little Sam first decided to befriend you on that park bench.” Sansa parted her fingers to peer out at Lady Tarly. “That you are quite wonderful.”

Sansa felt her chest swell with emotion. She’s not sure how much more her nerves can take this evening, being tugged at in all directions. “You cannot possibly mean that,” she said, shaking her head and lowering her hands to her lap.

Gilly’s smile was wry. “But I do,” she said. “Tell me… did you know that before I married Sam and became Lady Tarly, I was a maid?” Sansa felt her mouth part in surprise. She’d heard something about Gilly’s beginnings not matching with her husband’s, but honestly, she’d imagined that Lady Tarly had started as the daughter of new money or that her family were involved in industry… not this.

“A maid?”

“Yes,” Gilly grinned, “a housemaid. I had grand plans on becoming a lady’s maid one day, little did I know that _I’d_ be the lady.”

“I think it’s rather splendid that you could be so upwardly mobile in society these days,” Robb commented with a smile, dabbing at his mouth with a pristine white napkin. Sansa shot him a look of distaste. Her ire with her brother exposing everything to all and sundry right there in the drawing room had not yet receded.

“Why yes,” Gilly smiled stiffly at Robb, “for all it took was a Lord’s son to fall in love with me, deeply enough that he were willing to relinquish his claim on the estate when the ultimatum was given, as well as the untimely deaths of both his father and brother,” she answered, pausing to take a sip of deep burgundy wine from her crystal glass, her delicate gulp audible. “Hardly any trouble at all really.”

Lady Tarly’s sarcasm quite clearly thrashed at Robb like a sharp whip. “I did not mean any offence,” he said, sitting up straighter.

“I’m sure.” Her hostess smile was back, but Sansa had the feeling that Gilly had not taken too kindly to her brother threatening Jon in her home. She cannot say that she blames her. Nor can she place full fault at Robb’s feet either. She knows how the situation must have looked to him. Oh, what a terrible mess!

“My point being,” Gilly continued, turning her attention back towards Sansa, “is that I understand what it is like _not_ to have the finance and security of a decent family name. I know that people do what they will to get by.”

Sansa felt her cheeks colour with gratitude as she smiled politely and then lowered her gaze to where her fork was pushing around a slice of carrot on her plate, smearing the jus that was served with her duck. She popped the carrot in her mouth and thought quietly whilst chewing.

No one else at the table seemed to be in a talkative mood either. Time moved on, the dining room filled only with her contemplation and the polite scrape of cutlery. Before she’d known it, Sansa found her plate completely empty as she took the last few bites.

“I’ve been thinking,” Robb started, “there’s no need for you to stay here while this thing with Hardyng and Baelish is cleared up,” he wiped his mouth with his napkin like he’d done before. “Why don’t you head back to Winterfell and I’ll-“

Sansa’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not leaving. Not now.” How could he have thought such a thing?

Robb spared Gilly a brief glance and Sansa saw his lips twitch in annoyance. “Sansa,” he sighed, “I’m only thinking of you and I really do think it’s best that you are sent home to spare yourself the trouble of-“

“No,” she proclaimed firmly, taking her own napkin from her lap and placing it on the table. “I’m quite capable of making my own decisions without you, Robb, and I’ve decided that I’m staying until this thing is straightened out.”

Robb closed his eyes in vexation, letting out a huff through his nose. “I mean no offence, but look at what happened when you make your own decisions,” he accused, gesturing towards her with an open hand, the implication clear.

That stung. Robb could stick his suggestion for she did not care for it one jot. “Gilly,” she turned to Lady Tarly, her hand gripping the napkin in a fist, “I do not wish to share the gatehouse cottage with my brother tonight,” she told her, completely ignoring Robb, “may my things be brought to one of your guest rooms?”

***

JON

Sam was looking at him again. His features pulled together quizzically as though Jon were a riddle he were trying to decipher. “Just ask me, damn it,” Jon huffed, swirling his brandy in the glass, his eyes following the swill of the deep amber liquid so as to avoid looking at his friend’s befuddled face. “At least stop looking at me like that will you?”

They’d holed up in Horn Hill’s smoking room after Gilly had thoroughly set down the decrees for this evening. The room could not quite be called grand, but neither was it particularly small. The walls were dark moss green in colour, and in an evening such as this, seemed rather gloomy if it weren't for the lit fireplace popping and crackling with dancing flames.

Jon had passed up the opportunity for food, and Sam seemed to have joined him under some sort of solidarity. He felt rather restless, knowing that Alay- _Sansa_ would be having her meal only a few rooms away.

“Sorry, Jon. It’s just-“ his friend bumbled as he often does, “well… I’d never pegged you as one to philander.”

Jon frowned briefly at the jest. “And you’d be correct with that assumption,” swallowing the drink, he signalled for the footman to bring the decanter. “It’s as I said to Stark; it’s not as simple as all that.”

“Explain it to me, Jon. Please.”

The whole tale came tumbling from his lips. Eventually, Jon asked for the footman to leave the cut crystal decanter of fine brandy with him to save the poor man from overwork. Sam dismissed the manservant and then sat back in what would have been his father’s leather smoking chair.

“So, it was love at first sight then?”

Jon frowned. “I wouldn’t quite say that. Although my feelings for her grew astoundingly quickly.”

“And should that be so astounding? Did you not think yourself capable?”

“In truth I had not thought on it much.”

“Until you saw ‘Miss Stone’ and was possessed with the need to have her,” Sam grinned, seemingly crafting the words for Jon’s story all by himself. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed, announcing the hour. Gilly and the Starks would be finished with their meal now.

Jon shook his head. “That’s not how it was.”

“No?” Sam’s eyebrows rose. “So you just decided to enter into a contract with a woman that you’d met only that evening because…” he swirled his own brandy, the short stem of the glass slid between his upturned fingers, urging Jon to finish his words.

Huffing, Jon pushed his hand through his hair. “Because I… so that I could spare her from having to warm the beds of those so-called-gentlemen.”

“And she could warm yours instead?”

“ _What?_ No! It wasn’t… that’s not how it started. I told you how they were; bidding on her like horseflesh!” Jon seethed, downing more drink. He hissed as the liquid burned on its travels down his gullet and then continued on in a softer tone. “I had not planned on… _taking liberties_.”

Jon knew that if anyone were to believe him, it would be his dearest friend. Turning to see a gentle smile on Sam’s face he felt somewhat comforted. No matter how Stark saw it, Sam would know that Jon had not started this whole chapter of his life with lusty intentions. He hoped that Sansa would see that too.

“Did you tell her of your feelings before things got… intimate?” Sam asked.

Jon lowered his gaze and grimaced, a short shake of his head his only answer. What an utter mess.

They were quiet for a while before Jon spoke up, his eyes staring ahead, unseeing. “She lied about her name.” That had been a particularly sore sting. He thought that there had been trust between the two of them. Perhaps he was mistaken.

“I don’t think you can begrudge her that, Jon,” Sam said just as the door opened and in came Gilly. Alone. Jon rose from his seat to greet the lady of the house. Lady Tarly merely dismissed his formality with a wave of her hand.

“Begrudge who what?” she asked, obviously catching the tail end of their conversation.

“Miss Sansa’s use of a false name, my love,” Sam explained.

“Oh,” Gilly said, coming closer, “heavens no. Certainly not. The poor thing thought she had shamed her family name with what happened between her and the Hardyng fellow.”

Jon’s head whipped round so fast he was almost dizzy from the action. “Hardyng? What happened between her and Hardyng?”

“That’s not my tale to tell,” Gilly commented with a sniff, taking the half-full brandy glass from her husband’s hand and putting it down on the table.

“Yet more things that were kept from me?” He was irritated now. His ego stung from his misjudgement. Jon had thought that there were deeper feelings on both parts, yet it seemed that Sansa’s had not run deep enough. “And she claims that she loves me,” he almost sniggered, upturning his glass to his mouth only for Gilly to reach over and snatch it from his grasp before the sweet tang of amber liquid could touch his lips.

“How much have you let him drink?” she asked her husband before turning her glare back towards Jon. She was a slight thing, Sam’s Gilly, not at all tall either. But with that stern look in her eye as she stood over him where he was seated, Jon’s not sure he’d risk raising Lady Tarly’s ire. “If she says she loves you, then she loves you, you dolt!”

“She’s lied to me all this time –“

“And you don’t think she’d have good reason to do so?” There was a fire blazing in her eyes now. “The poor girl has been manipulated, used and taught not to trust her own judgement when it comes to men. No doubt she thought you saw the arrangement as just that – whereby you employ her for her services and nothing more.”

Jon’s not sure how many times he’ll need to repeat it. “It wasn’t like that-“

“Did you tell her this? Did you let her know how you felt?”

“Well, no, but –“

“Well then,” she sniffed and wandered slowly over towards the fireplace, the flames casting a dancing glow across the front of her dress. “And then your wretched father –“

Jon groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “This is truly a mountain of a mess.”

“A mess that won’t be resolved until you two talk together tomorrow,” Gilly agreed, turning away from the light of the fire.

Jon stood. The room wobbling a little for a few seconds before it seemed to right itself. “I’ll go to her now.”

“Robb Stark still wishes to relieve your mouth of a few teeth,” Sam reminded him, picking up his brandy.

Gilly strode over and took the drink away from her husband before his lips could touch the glass. “Well it’s a jolly good job Miss Sansa is not sleeping at the cottage tonight then, isn’t it?” Both men looked to her with confusion clear on their faces. “I’ve just seen her safely to one of our guest rooms,” she explained.

“Which one?!” Jon could feel his heart dancing double-time behind his ribs. Gilly only shook her head.

“I’m not telling you that, Jon Targaryen.”

“ _Gilly_ ,” he heard himself whine like a four-year-old boy who had been denied a sweet. How could she be so cruel? To tell him that Sansa is staying under the same roof but not trust him with her whereabouts? Jon's not sure how many guest bedrooms Horn Hill can boast of exactly, but no doubt it would be a mighty task to wander them all.

“However, I have told her which room _you_ are sleeping in. whether she decides to pay you a visit or not is none of my concern. So, the play really is in her hands, you see,” she shrugged, a small smirk upon her lips.

Jon moved to Gilly, taking her face in his hands and bestowing her with a peck on either cheek in an uncommon display of affectionate gratitude. “Do you know,” he starts, all wide grin and promise of excitement, “I’ve come to learn that women really are as equally exasperating as they are utterly, _utterly_ wonderful!” he beamed, hearing Sam chuckle in his chair behind him as Gilly returned his smile.

Jon left the room as promptly as his feet could take him, bounding up the huge grand staircase, three steps at a time. Sansa may not choose to visit his room tonight. But the chance is there. He could be waiting up till dawn’s first light stretches its fingers across the estate, but he does not care. If there is the smallest hope that he can talk to her – _really_ talk to her – sooner rather than later, then he’ll forego a month’s worth of sleep.

When he makes it to his guest room – the room he always stays in when visiting his dear friend - the handle twists in his hand and his feet are over the threshold before he can properly register that there, sat on his bed, dressed for retiring to sleep, is Sansa with a piece of paper in her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen - how else am i gonna keep you guys interested if i don't include a few cliffhangers here and there>


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is... well.... _I tried_ lol!
> 
> I feel a bit rusty with this one and tried out a different writing process to my normal one and I found it quite difficult. I really hope that doesn't come across in the writing!
> 
> Yours sincerely, an insecure fic writer
> 
>  
> 
> ps - Jon is a dramatic ho in this chapter and I hope it's not too OOC but then, Victorians were quite OTT with their penchant for love letters and the like

The door behind her had clicked shut for a mere two seconds before Sansa felt her eyes close. She took a long drag of air through her nose. That hadn’t seemed to have helped the warring in her tummy, so she took another, the room dark behind her eyelids as she felt her shoulders rise and fall in time with the filling of her lungs. Somehow, even her lungs ached from the day’s revelations. The guest room that Gilly had put her in had turned out to be fine indeed, with white cotton bedclothes, soft moss green carpet, a beautiful decorative Asshai rug, and deep chestnut furniture. It also smelt strongly of jasmine and roses.

Normally, Sansa would enjoy a heady fragrance, but somehow the scent was too much for her this evening. She found it cloying and overly rich. The first thing she sought to do once she opened her eyes was to move the two bowls of potpourri she found over to the windowsill, opening one of the large sash windows. The night air was much more refreshing; cooler, with a hint of autumn rain.

From there, she could see the dark figure of her brother retreating alone to the gatehouse cottage for the night. Sansa’s heart gave a little lurch. They’ve barely been reunited a few days and already there is a rift between them.

_Jon._

He would be staying in the furthest guest bedroom on the opposite wing of the house, Gilly informed her. Sansa’s not sure that she likes being aware of this piece of knowledge or not.

She moved to where her trunks lay on the floor next to the vanity, deciding that a night’s sleep is much needed after everything that has happened today. Her nightdress was relatively easy to find amongst the luggage and so she began readying herself for bed in a rather vacant state, as though there just were simply too many things for her to think on, that all her thoughts had fled her mind all at once.

Sitting in front of the Tarly’s silver framed mirror, Sansa watched her hands make quick and painless work of removing her hair pins, tumbles of auburn locks falling down her shoulders as she stared at the woman who was blinking back at her.

A vision came to her; a vision of grey eyes looking at her in earnest, a brow raised in such sincerity as heartfelt words like _‘love’_ and _‘wed’_ fell from genuine lips. Sansa shook her head to dispel herself of the echoes of her girlish dreams. _Do not even begin to think of trusting those words, Sansa. Sweet and tempting as they may be. There must be other motives at play._

Sansa ached. _Oh heavens,_ she ached all over, and a thick and heady tiredness was coming over her so strongly that she felt she might like to sleep solidly for a week – though she feared she’d be no more rested afterwards.

She needed her comb. Her favourite silver handled one was laying on her little table back at the cottage, but there is another, smaller, hardly ever used comb and brush set somewhere in one of her vanity cases.

The first case she tried was of no use – it was filled with silk stockings, ribbons and fripperies. The second however, yielded something far more interesting, although not what she was in search of.

A note. Folded in half and then half again. The parchment seemingly handled well. Sansa furrowed her brow – she does not remember packing such an item. Sitting down in a rather un-lady-like manner there upon the rug, clad in only her nightgown, Sansa peeled apart the folds of paper to reveal words written in a now most familiar hand.

_My dearest Alayne,_

_My dearheart, I must tell you that I am pained in a most dreadful manner to have found that you are gone from my side. Please believe me when I say that my father does not have any sway on my heart and for who it beats. I can only imagine what a shock it must’ve been to meet Lord Rhaegar Targaryen under such circumstances, but you should know that I would rather us run from all society and elope than for me to be forced away from you._

_You see, I am quite maddeningly, extraordinarily, exceedingly in love with you, Alayne._

_If this letter finds you before I do, please reconsider your decision to leave without word and write to me. If, for nothing else, to inform me that you are safe, well and happy._

_Always yours,_

_Jon_

Sansa’s breath caught sorely in her throat as her eyes rapidly skimmed the ink once more. She’d heard him make declarations of his feelings towards her in the Tarly’s drawing room this evening. She’d heard him speak of a marriage between them. _She’d heard the words straight from his mouth…_

_And yet._

A voice that she thought most rational at the time had almost swept those words aside and laid an explanation for them down at her feet; _Robb._

It was quite clearly no secret by now that her brother should like to string up any man who dared dishonour his sister, and, to Robb, Jon fit that category perfectly. That little voice had reasoned that Jon was merely saving his skin by declaring himself more than a debauchee and claiming to feel for Robb’s little sister most keenly.

That must’ve been the reason he said what he said and claimed what he claimed. Wasn’t it?

Because the alternative – _the alternative_ – is that Jon Targaryen _does_ love Sansa… and yet he visited a whorehouse anyway.

Is that what this is? The truth about men’s natures? They can love a woman and still take pleasure in leaping into the bed of another? Even good, honourable men like Jon?

Or is he not the man she thought him to be in the first place? She’s been wrong before on that account. It only stands to reason that she could be fooled again – once more, or many times over, even.

The feeling sat ill with Sansa as she stared at Jon’s note for some minutes. She felt dizzy and sick and all out of sorts at the uncertainty of it all.

Finally, with another long fortifying breath, she rose from her seat there on the rug and made her way to find Jon Targaryen’s room.

***

JON

“Alayne,” he heard himself whisper, his hand still on the door-handle. His body reacted with every nerve tensing, wincing at his misstep. _“Sansa.”_

Her eyes closed and she swallowed something down uncomfortably. When she opened them again, the flash of pale blue seemed determinedly set as though he were about to receive a lashing like a young lad caught stealing biscuits from the pantry.

“What do you mean by this?” Her voice wasn’t harsh, but there was a daring edge to it as she thrust his note into the air between them.

“Exactly what it says,” Jon replied, closing the door, never taking his eyes from hers as his brow furrowed. “ _That_ is what I mean by it.” If only she knew the amount of time he’d spent agonising over his choice of words. He is no poet; this he knows, but every scrawl of ink was heartfelt, as though he’d etched them onto his bones.

She looked down at his letter briefly before her gaze met with his once more. “It says that you are in love with me.”

Jon was a little lost. She’d said the words like an accusation. And yet she’d heard them already down in the drawing room. He’d heard words of reciprocating sentiment from her own sweet mouth.

“It does,” he nodded slowly, an illogical uneasy feeling swilling around in his gut, “because I do. I do love you… _Sansa_.” He’ll have to get used to that. The corner of his mouth twitches upward briefly. It is a very beautiful name.

Sansa’s expression does not change as she seems to be simply regarding him, like he were an oddity she were determined to make sense of.

“Robb won’t hurt you or your reputation, you know. I can make sure of it.”

Jon snorted softly although Sansa’s countenance remained almost steely. “Glad to hear it.”

“So, you can tell me, _truly_ , do you mean it? Or were you lying to seem less of a scoundrel in my brother’s eyes?”

 _“Less of a-?“_ he shook his head. “You think I lied to save myself from your brother’s ire?” A quite disturbing thought thundered horrendously into his mind. “Is… is that what _you_ did? Lied on my behalf about your own feelings?” He could picture it now, she’d claim true affection for him and appeal to her brother’s better nature to let him go unscathed. _Oh Seven Hells,_ that notion hurt as it slammed into his ribs.

Her lip trembled a fraction and Jon could not, for the life of him, decipher its meaning. “I have been misled before.” Her voice was but a whisper.

“Al-“ Managing to catch himself before making a repeat of his blunder, Jon licked his lips before correcting himself. “ _Sansa,”_ he said, coming to sit beside her on his bed, “I have no intentions of misleading you. I meant very much the words in your hand and those spoken earlier this evening.”

Blinking at him, Sansa nodded, although the action seemed to be more for herself than for him. Her gaze shifted, unfocused to the side before dropping to the note in her hands. She did not seem at all joyed to hear that his feelings for her were, indeed, genuine. “You do not want my heart,” Jon concluded, a searing pain in his chest making him feel nauseous.

“I do.”

Her words were teetering on the edge of comforting, and yet something was not as it should be. Jon watched her beside him intently, but Sansa did not seem to wish to meet his gaze. “You do?”

“Yes, very much.” Still, her eyes seemed to stay fixed to the letter in her hands. Why would she not look to him?

“You do not look happy.”

Twisting in her seated position, Sansa faced him now, their knees kissing together briefly before she settled. “I do want your heart, Jon Targeryen,” she told him, those blue eyes casting him adrift. “But I want all of it.”

“It is yours. In its entirety, Sansa.” _Of course_ it was, it had been for quite some time now if he’s being really truthful with himself. “There is none to spare for anyone else.”

“And your desires?”

“Yes! Those too.” How could she think to question him on this? “ _Seven Hells,_ Sansa, if you think I do not desire you, then I rather fancy we ought to be concerned for your senses!” He tried for a chuckle but it ended on a rather pitiful sort of huff. Sansa still did not seem at ease and Jon could feel it gnawing away at him too.

“Yes, but _only me_ , Jon. If I am to ever wed, then let the gods grant me a faithful husband _,”_ She declared in a soft voice, her eyes were having trouble meeting with his again as she spoke next, her voice barely a whisper _._ “I could not bear sharing you with another woman’s bed.”

 _Heavens!_ What on earth was she talking about? Jon found himself quite perplexed “I would _never_ stray, Sansa. _Never.”_

Jon watched her eyes fall closed and the glisten of a tear gather, ready to fall before she sniffed in an effort to keep control and wiped furiously at her pale cheek. She was overcome by sadness and he felt clueless and unable to help – the feeling gut him deep in his belly. He wanted nothing more than to set the world right for this woman. But all he could do was stare at the floral embroidery around the collar of her night robe.

“You’re lying to me,” she accused, her voice unable to belie her steadiness, if it weren’t for the minute quiver of her lip. Jon felt lost in more ways than one.

“Why would you say such a thing?”

“Jon, I know about your visit.”

“My visit?”

“To the whorehouse.” It took him a few moments to realise to what Sansa was referring to. Truthfully, he’d almost forgotten the whole episode. He felt his mouth open in surprise and his cheeks colour in embarrassment. “Margaery is granddaughter to the woman who is known as Madam O,” she pressed on, hands fidgeting with his note, “and I am aware that you visited the establishment for… to-“

She had it wrong. She had all so _gloriously, terribly, awfully_ wrong. _This,_ coupled with his nitwit of a father is why she left him? _This_ is why she won’t readily take the love he is offering to her? The love he is begging her to take for her own? He needed to rectify this straight away.

“Sansa-“

“No, it’s fine, Jon.” she cut him off, sitting stiff-backed and resolute, “I am aware that gentlemen have… _appetites,_ and I would not judge, since I, myself was under your employment for similar business, but I just cannot abide the thought of-“

“And you do not have to.” Jon could not bear for her to think such a thing for a moment longer as he scooped both her hands in his, the note fluttering to her bare feet peeking from her robe. “ _Never,_ my sweetheart. I promise you.”

Sansa blinked down at their bundle of hands. Jon brought them up to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckle, holding her gaze through his lashes. She inhaled sharply and then pulled away. Her reaction wounded him, although he understood it. “If you are about to deny your visit, then I’m not sure how you think I could believe you.”

“I won’t deny it, but I-“ Jon shook his head, feeling his cheeks heat at knowing what it is he must confess. “I had not used the establishment for its intended purpose.” Licking his lips nervously, he chanced a glance at Sansa. Her full attention was his, a blue gaze boring into him with great interest. He decided to stare at the decorative Asshai rug instead. “While there, I… employed the services of two whores – to teach me the ways in which I could bring pleasure to you. I was such a green lad when it came to women, that I felt I needed some guidance and you deserved for me to know what I was doing.”

“So… you did not lie with them?”

He took a hold of her hands again. _“I didn’t even touch them, Sansa.”_

“And they taught you-“

“How best to make you come apart on my tongue. _‘Tipping the velvet’_ they named it,” Jon smiled, although his face still felt hot from embarrassment.

“And I am to believe you so readily, am I?” she swallowed. Something was holding her back from her trust in him and he did not like it one whit.

“I’m not sure, short of escorting you to the premises and presenting you with the whores so that you are able to interrogate them, how you can be completely assured. Except, in knowing that _I love you,_ Sansa, and that I swear to you I am telling the truth. All my heart, all my desires, all my carnal lusts and genuine affections - they are all yours. To take if you so wish.”

Jon’s never known any words to hold more truth than the ones that he has declared this night and it is killing him that Sansa has hesitations. But there must be reason for them, and he would not hold that against her. As it was, he is quite giddy just to be here, with her, holding her soft hands in his as she seems to be thinking on all that he has said.

“My brother wishes to inflict some serious harm onto you, I’m sure.” A slow, amused smile spread across her face at his expense, and it is quite possibly the most welcome sight Jon has ever witnessed.

“No doubt.” He nods his head, unable to contain his grin. “I thought you were to be my protector from his wrath?”

Sansa laughs – a small, gentle chuckle that sparks a bloom of warmth in Jon’s chest.

“What do we do now?” she wonders out loud, her smile fading from her lips.

It is all rather simple in Jon's mind. “I mean to make you my wife, Sansa.” 

“Robb will have some deep reservations.”

“Elopement then?” That got him another flicker of a smile, although he were only half joking.

“We have quarrelled, Robb and I…” Sansa explains, finally allowing herself to pull her hands from Jon’s. She looked down to them as though they now felt foreign on the ends of her arms. “He does not seem to trust me with my own heart. And I tend to agree with him somewhat. I love you, Jon, but I do not wish to elope. I’m tired of running away.”

Jon could believe that. She looked utterly fatigued and just about ready to give up on the world. “You seek your brother’s blessing?” He was answered with a nod and small twitch of a smile. “And… he would not give a blessing to a marriage… considering the situation…?” It had been something he had thought of between now and finding out the truth of their situation, surely, Robb Stark would prefer his sister secure a marriage out of this whole mess?

“He might,” Sansa considered, “But I rather think he’d sooner see me a spinster living with him safely at Winterfell than permanently attached to a man that may end up hurting my heart.”

 _“I would never,”_ he answered fiercely _._ How can she not know that by now?

“Robb does not see it that way.”

 “What way do _you_ see it?”

“I want to believe you. I really, really do. And a part of me already does-“

“But?” His nerves were balanced on a knife’s edge.

The breath Sansa let out was sorrowful and yet resolute. She tried for a smile but it did not hold. “That is a story for another time. The hour is late, and I really must be getting back to my own room.”

Jon’s chest gave a little lurch. He gathered her hands up in his for the third time. “Sansa,” he implored her to look at him, _really look at him_. “Will you allow me to _try_ and convince you of my heart?”

She considered him with those cornflower blue eyes of hers. Jon watched her lips stretch into a slow, hesitant smile – a smile that gave him more warmth than any flame. “Yes, Jon Targaryen,” she nodded, dipping her head in an adorably bashful manner, her cheeks blooming a rosy pink, “I would allow you try.”

Almost an hour after Sansa had left his room to return to her own, Jon was still in no mood for sleep. In fact, he very much needed to do something – and that something was talk to his life-long friend.

“Jon!” Sam gasped. Jon realised, all too late that the indignation in his friend’s voice was warranted. He’d all but barged into his bedroom unannounced after all. Gilly was stood in her nightgown and Sam had moved to try and shield his wife from their intruder’s gaze. “What in Seven Hells has gotten into you?!”

“Apologies!” Jon spluttered, although he couldn’t completely wipe the excited smile from his face. “Apologies, Gilly,” he repeated, reaching forward to grab his friend by the sleeve of his paisley sleeping pyjamas and drag him from his own bedroom into the hall. “I just need to borrow your husband for a moment.”

“By all means,” Gilly smirked as she watched Sam being yanked out of their room, a bemused look upon his face.

Jon shut the door and turned to his oldest, dearest friend before taking a breath to collect himself from his excitement and apprehensions. “I’m going to ask Robb Stark for permission to court his sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like I said.... _I tried_ *grimaces*


End file.
